


In My Mind, I Still Need a Place to Go

by Skarabrae_stone



Series: And the Fall to Doom a Long Way Away [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Female Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Trans Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14125836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: Steve wants Beck to be happy. Beck would settle for just being a person. Neither of them is quite sure how to navigate a relationship that’s been on a ten-year hiatus– especially when Beck still has almost no memory of her life before HYDRA. As Sam keeps reminding them, recovery is a rocky road.





	1. Prologue/Shovel Talk

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to And the Fall to Doom a Long Way Away.  
> The title is from "Helpless", by Neil Young.

_There is a town in north Ontario,_   
_With dream comfort, memory to spare,_   
_And in my mind, I still need a place to go,_   
_All my changes were there._

\--"Helpless", Neil Young

Romanov stops the car in Avengers Tower’s private garage, and glances at Steve. “Hey Cap, could you go make sure the coast is clear?”

He stares at her for a long moment—longer, Beck thinks, than is strictly necessary—then says pleasantly, “Sure thing. Wouldn’t want some maintenance worker getting a heart attack.” He opens the door, steps out, then leans back in. “You two behave while I’m gone.”

Romanov throws him an ironic salute, the door slams shut, and the two of them are left alone. Beck feels her heart-rate pick up. Her hand slides to her thigh, where her knife is a reassuring weight.

There’s a long moment of silence, then Romanov turns to face her. “So,” she says. Her voice is light, friendly, and sends a chill of warning straight down Beck’s spine. “Sounds like you’ve made a lot of progress in the past few days.”

The foreboding feeling gets a lot stronger. Beck isn’t sure what’s expected of her, so she just nods.

Romanov smiles.

It’s about as friendly as the smile of a barracuda.

“That’s great, Beck,” she says. “Really great.”

Beck doesn’t respond, just waits.

“You’ve probably figured this out,” she continues in that same pleasant tone, “but this is the bit where I tell you—I don’t care who you are, or what’s happened to you, or how far you’ve come—if you hurt Steve—and I don’t just mean physically, if you mess him around, if you break his heart—I will kill you.”

Her eyes burn into Beck, bright and deadly as flame. “I’ve done my time with the whole brainwashing thing. I can sympathize. But you hurt Steve? I will turn you inside out, and I will flay you alive.”

Beck stares at her. The woman is in deadly earnest, and what’s more, she’s one of the few people alive who could probably carry out that threat. Natasha Romanov. The Black Widow. She feels herself relax for the first time since she agreed to come here.

Her voice, when she speaks, is a little hoarse. “Promise?”

There’s a brief, very brief, moment where Romanov looks surprised. Then it’s gone, smoothed over so quickly Beck isn’t sure if she saw it at all.

“What?”

“Do you promise?” she repeats. “If—if I do something to him—you’ll take me out?”

There’s a pause while Romanov stares at her, as if weighing her up, before she too, relaxes. “Okay,” she says. “Yes. Yes, I promise.”

Beck releases a breath, slumping back against the seat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Romanov’s mouth quirks into the smallest of smiles. “And, Beck?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re alright.”

She’s not sure how to answer that, but is saved by Steve’s return.

“All clear,” he announces, pulling open the door. “You two done with your heart-to-heart, or do I need to take another lap around the garage?”

Romanov grins at him. “How is it that after all this time I still forget you’re not as dumb as you look?”

“Must come of hanging out with Tony,” says Steve. He ducks his head lower so he can see into the back seat. “Beck? You okay back there?”

She nods.

“Okay, then let’s go.”


	2. If I Could Read Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck can't sleep. Steve tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for PTSD symptoms, past trauma, mention of murder. Details in the end notes.

_But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?_

\--J.R.R. Tolkien, _Return of the King_

Beck can’t sleep.

Steve’s apartment feels weird—it’s too big, too empty, too open, and it feels… impersonal, sterile, in a way the safehouse hadn’t.

The guest room is too quiet without the sound of Steve’s breathing to fill it up, too empty without him hogging all the available floor space. She knows he’s in the room right next to her, knows that this is possibly the safest place in the world for her right now, but she can’t shake the tension that’s been pulling at her shoulder muscles since they climbed into Romanov’s car.

It's too quiet.

It’s too goddamn _empty_ , and this spacious room is nothing like the cell they kept her in, but somehow it feels the same.

She slides out of bed, tucks a knife into the waistband of the pajama pants she borrowed from Steve, and opens the door.

Everything is still. She ghosts down the hall, and pauses with her ear to Steve’s door, listening. His breathing is just barely audible from within, and she relaxes a little at the familiar sound. Still, she can’t settle; she feels like something’s buzzing under her skin, like the current in the air before a thunderstorm.

In the living room, she checks the locks on the door and windows, and hesitates at the bookshelf, running her finger along the spines of the cheap paperbacks nestled there. She doesn’t remove any of them, though. With the way her skin is prickling, she knows she won’t be able to read.

In the end, she goes out to the balcony.

It’s chilly out, the edge of November creeping near, and there’s no sign of stars, only the orange glow of the city lights. She leans on the parapet, looking at pinprick-headlights of cars below, the splashes of red and blue and neon green reflecting from the signs and windows of bars and whatever else is open at this time of night. The hum of traffic, the distant call of a siren, wrap around her, the city’s mantra weirdly soothing as she stands here above it all, the breeze plucking at her hair.

The wind picks up, bringing a few drops of rain with it, but she doesn’t want to go back inside. The apartment feels wrong, it feels—like a hotel, or a showroom, tastefully expensive, perfectly neutral. There’s nothing of _Steve_ , she realizes, in the matched dining set or the granite countertops or bare walls; the only sign of his personality is the wildly varying contents of the bookshelf in the living room.

 _No pictures on the walls_ , she thinks, except a large, generic black-and-white photo of New York that can probably be found decorating half the hipster coffee-shops in the city. She doesn’t remember much, but it strikes her as utterly _wrong_ that the man who doodles on every scrap of paper he comes across, who’s drawn her half a dozen times just in the past three days, has no art on his walls.

It reminds her of the places favored by HYDRA operatives—houses that had looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine, radiating neatness and order and a complete lack of personality. She doesn’t know how many she’s seen, to answer a summons or take a punishment or make a killing, but there was a sameness to them, a repetition that’s burned into her skull.

_The sitting room was elegant, tasteful, and completely generic; linen curtains, walnut desk and chairs, classic literature in the bookshelf and mass-produced paintings on the walls. The blonde man standing in the middle of it all was dressed in an expensive suit and tie, a glass of whiskey in his hand, looking for all the world like the vacationing politician he claimed to be. Just the sight of him made her stomach clench in dread._

_“Soldier. Report.”_

_Her leg was bleeding heavily, making it difficult to balance, but she did her best to stand at attention, trying to ignore the pain shooting through her thigh._ The Asset does not feel pain. The Asset does not…

_She fixed her gaze to the left of his ear, arms stiff at her sides. “Target eliminated.”_

_“Witnesses?”_

_She hesitated._

_He took a step closer, his face very close to hers. “Witnesses?” he repeated._

_She took a shuddering breath. “Three witnesses.”_

_“And?”_

_“Two were eliminated….”_

_“And the third?”_

_“He—”_

_“Why didn’t you eliminate the third witness, Soldier?”_

_She swallowed, nausea roiling in her stomach. “He was just a kid,” she whispered. “He didn’t—he didn’t know anything.”_

_“That was not your decision to make.” He watched her, blue eyes narrowed. “You realize you will have to be punished, don’t you?”_

_Her blood made a ticking sound as it pooled on the hardwood floor. A shudder ran through her, the metal plates on her arm shifting restlessly. “I…”_

_“Tell me why you are being punished.”_

_Her head was pounding, insistent as a jackhammer, making it hard to focus. “The Asset,” she started, and stopped, losing the thread. “The Asset does not… deviate from—the directives…”_

_“Unless ordered to do so,” he finished. His voice was calm, almost sympathetic. “I don’t want to punish you. But you understand why I have to, don’t you? You disobeyed.”_

_White spots flashed in front of her eyes. Her left arm felt heavy, a dead weight pulling her off-balance. “I’m sorry.”_

_“That’s not good enough.”_

_“I won’t disobey again.” Everything hurt, the room going fuzzy around the edges. Her legs were shaking so badly she could hardly stand. “Please…”_

_His face hardened. “The Asset does not make requests." He gestured to someone behind her. “Take it away. Make sure it doesn’t disobey again.”_

Rain slaps her face, bringing her back, and she reels away from the edge, back into the silent kitchen. Her head is buzzing, thoughts and memories bumbling against each other angrily, like bees in a jar. She needs to get away from it, needs something solid, an anchor, she needs—

 _Someplace safe_ , she thinks, and her eyes rove around the dark kitchen. Her breath is loud in her ears, her pulse thumping away beneath her jaw.

_Someplace safe._

And then she sees it.

 ***

Steve isn’t sure what wakes him—a sound or a dream or just his body’s way of responding to the stress of the previous day. Whatever it is, he’s awake now, and his attempts to fall back asleep haven’t done much good. After a while—it’s always hard to tell time at this time of night—he gives up, and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Standing at the sink, he suddenly gets that feeling—a prickle on the back of his neck, a tension in his gut—that he’s being watched. For a moment, he stands perfectly still, listening, but he can’t hear anything unusual.

He sets the glass in the sink, and slowly turns around. It takes a moment before he notices a shadow that’s out of place, a glint of light on metal; he blinks, and then he can see her, crouching, motionless.

“Beck?” he says softly. “Why are you on top of the fridge?”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Foreboding settles in his stomach like a lead ball.

“Beck? Hon? You okay?”

Still no response.

Steve moves cautiously forward, palms up in a gesture of non-aggression. “Are you okay, Beck? Do you need help?”

Her eyes are on him, but it’s too dark for him to read the expression in them; her face is blank, emotionless, and he guesses—who is he kidding, he’s c _ertain_ —that she’s got at least one weapon hidden somewhere. Even hunched over the way she is, her head is brushing the ceiling.

“Beck?” He stops a few inches from the fridge, tilting his head back to make eye contact. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

No answer.

He sighs, rubs the back of his head, then slowly reaches out, giving her plenty of time to move if she wants. “I’m gonna touch your knee, okay? You can tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

He touches her knee.

Nothing happens.

“Okay,” he says, not sure what to do next. “Okay. Beck, can you… can you give me a hint here? You want me to stay? Go away?”

Nothing.

“Can I take your hand?”

At last, a slight movement as her hand moves, twitches really—just close enough to be within his reach.

He releases a breath. “Okay. I’m going to take your hand, alright? You can move away if you want.”

She doesn’t move, but when he takes her hand, she squeezes back, her grip suddenly vice-like. Steve is reminded of the time he got caught in the pincers of one of Tony’s robots.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“Do you wanna just let up a little bit on my hand? Just a little? You’re kind of—”

“No? Okay. Okay, that’s alright, I’ll just…”

A few minutes pass by. Steve’s hand, hell, his whole arm, is going numb. It’s a damned awkward angle.

“Hey, Beck? I’m going to sit on the counter, okay? I just—it’ll be a little easier…”

He levers himself onto the counter with his free hand, shuffling closer to the fridge so their arms are at a better angle. On top of the fridge, Beck shifts ever so slightly, leaning back against the cupboard behind her.

“You feeling any better?”

Still no response, though her grip is not quite so uncomfortable now. Steve rests his cheek against the fridge, and without really thinking about it, starts to sing quietly.

“ _If you could read my mind, love,_

_What a tale my thoughts would tell—_

_Just like an old-time movie,_

_About a ghost from a wishing well…”_

He wishes he knew what was going on in her head, what’s happened to render her so uncommunicative. If she wants to climb on the furniture, he doesn’t care—hell, he can see the appeal of sitting on the fridge himself—but her lack of response worries him. For all he knows, she’s reliving some awful thing in her mind, and he doesn’t know how to pull her out of it.

Well, if all he can do is hold her hand and sing to her, at least she’ll know she’s not alone.

“ _When you reach the part_

_Where the heartache comes,_

_The hero would be me…_

_But heroes often fail…”_

His voice breaks a little, and he thinks—he’s pretty sure—that Beck squeezes his hand, so lightly he almost doesn’t feel it.

_“I never thought I could act this way_

_And I’ve got to say_

_That I just don’t get it_

_I don’t know where we went wrong…”_

Beck’s hand is cold in his; he rubs his thumb across her skin, trying to warm her, trying to sooth her. She’s right next to him, but the gap between them feels as big as when he reached for her on the train…. Reached and missed, watched her fall away, down and down…

“ _And if you read between the lines,_

_You’ll know that I’m just trying to understand_

_The feeling that you lack…”_

He stops, feeling that this wasn’t, perhaps, the best song to choose—he doesn’t want Beck to think he’s—blaming her, or something.

She squeezes his hand, much more obviously this time.

Steve draws a shaky breath. “You want me to stop, or keep going?”

No answer.

“Squeeze if you want me to—to keep singing.”

She squeezes, and he can’t help a small smile.

“I don’t know why. I’ve got a lousy voice.”

Another squeeze.

“Okay, okay. Let me think of something—a little less depressing, huh? What about…” He clears his throat, starts again.

“ _If you’re down, and troubled, and you need a helping hand,_

_And nothing is going right,_

_Close your eyes and think of me, and soon, I will be there_

_To brighten up even your darkest night…”_

He sings the song all the way through, and he thinks Beck feels a little more relaxed, her hand clinging a little less desperately.

“ _Winter, spring, summer, or fall,_

_All you got to do is call,_

_And I’ll be there, yes I will—_

_You got a friend…”_

Beck sighs, and shifts position. Steve gives her hand a little tug.

“Hey Beck, I’m getting kind of cramped here. You think maybe you could come down, now?”

No response.

“I’ll make cocoa,” he wheedles.

There’s a long pause; then Beck swings her legs over the side, and Steve moves over so she can climb down beside him.  

“Okay,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Okay, great.”

He makes the cocoa with Beck pressed up against him, her metal arm around his waist and her face smushed against his shoulder. It’s not exactly easy to maneuver around the kitchen like this, but she shuffles with him every time he moves, and lets go of his hand when he needs to pour the hot water, so he manages.

“Let’s go over to the couch, okay?”

She nods, head still pressed against his collarbone, and the movement gives him a fluttery feeling. As worried as he is, he still can’t help the thrill of having her _here_ ; having her close. They haven’t kissed since they got here, and he won’t push her—especially not now—but the knowledge that she might, that she’s capable of wanting him still, after everything, smolders in his chest like a live coal, just waiting to be blown into flame.

 _I’ll take care of you_ , he promises silently as they make their ponderous way to the couch. _I won’t let you down this time. I won’t let you fall._

He sits down, placing the mugs of cocoa on the coffee table, and Beck curls up next to him, half on his lap, clinging like a baby sloth. Steve strokes her hair, rubs her back, tries to think of something to do or say that will help, that can pull her out of—wherever she’s gone in her head.

“I wish I knew what to do,” he murmurs.

Beck pinches him.

“Ow! What the hell, Beck?”

She lifts her head enough for him to see her expression, then rolls her eyes, mouth pursed and eyebrows raised. He’s seen that look a million times, but to see it on her face now is like seeing a ghost, like the Becky he knew is briefly looking out of the Soldier’s eyes.

It's her _you're being dramatic_ face, and he can hear the words that go with it so clearly that she might as well have spoken them aloud: _Come on, Stevie. Lighten up a little, huh?  
_

“I’m over-thinking this?”

She nods.

“Okay. I’ll try not to take myself so seriously.” He sighs, looks down at her, where her hand is all twisted up in his T-shirt like it’s some kind of security blanket. “I’m guessing you’re having trouble with… with the whole talking thing, right now?”

Another nod.

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine. No worries. I’m right here.” He hands her a mug. “Drink your cocoa. I made it special.”

She gives him an unimpressed look, but takes a sip anyway. Steve rubs her back.

“Would you like me to read to you?”

No reaction.

“It’s just, it used to help me, when… sometimes, it’s just nice, is all. We could try it, see what you think?”

There’s a pause of a few seconds before she nods. Steve squeezes her shoulder.

“Okay. Hang on, I’ll get a book.”

It takes him a few minutes to convince her to unwrap herself from him, and when he returns with the book she immediately tucks herself back under his arm, twining her metal fingers in his T-shirt and shredding it in the process. She doesn’t seem to notice, and Steve sure as hell isn’t going to say anything.

He pulls a blanket over her, draping his arm across her shoulder, and takes a preparatory sip of cocoa.

“In a hole in the ground,” he begins, “there lived a hobbit.”

The words take him back, to afternoons spent on the couch in his mom’s tiny apartment, back when it was Becky reading to him, the sound of her voice keeping him sane, keeping him grounded. Now, with her curled up practically in his lap, he thinks it’s only right to return the favor.

“Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

The night moves on, stars wheeling somewhere in the sky above New York, above the reach of the smog, and Steve’s voice fills the quiet living room like smoke, the story weaving its own kind of magic. The empty mug droops in Beck’s hand, and he carefully removes it from her grasp and sets it on the table.

Her face is slack and quiet, dark lashes curled on her cheeks, and she’s finally relaxed her grip on his shirt. Steve shifts a little so he can lie down, still holding her close.

In his arms, the world’s deadliest assassin sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Beck has a flashback to being punished for deviating from orders as the Winter Soldier. Descriptions of blood, mentions of murder (including a child). She becomes non-verbal, and Steve has to calm her down.  
> Title is from the song "If You Could Read My Mind" by Gordon Lightfoot.  
> Steve sings the above song and "You've Got a Friend" by Carol King, and reads "The Hobbit" by J.R.R. Tolkien.  
> The handler in Beck's flashback is, of course, Alexander Pierce, but I'm going with the idea that her handlers wouldn't tell her their names, and since she's being wiped all the time, she wouldn't remember them. She would, however, remember what they look like (to some degree) and be trained to obey them and expect pain/punishment for disobeying.


	3. Lawyers, Guns, and Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck meets Tony Stark and Pepper Potts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting this chapter to be so fluffy, but... here we are.

_Help me if you can, I'm feeling down_  
_And I do appreciate you being 'round_  
 _Help me get my feet back on the ground_  
 _Won't you please, please help me?_

\--“Help”, the Beatles

She wakes when Steve’s breathing changes, to find herself clinging to him like a child with a teddy bear. His skin is warm where her head rests against his chest, his heartbeat loud in her ear. Bars of pale, slanting light stripe the walls and ceiling, not yet touching the floor. It's still early.

Cautiously, she moves her head. Steve tenses slightly in response.

“Beck?” he murmurs. “You okay?”

With an effort, she pushes herself upright, careful not to scrape him with her metal hand. Her mouth feels, and tastes, like someone stuck a dirty sock in it, and she aches all over.

“Ugh.”

He props himself up on his elbows, watching her with an expression of gentle concern. She realizes his T-shirt has been torn nearly in half, exposing the skin.

“Yeah,” he says wryly, “I know what you mean.”

“I ripped your shirt.”

Steve glances down in apparent surprise. “Oh. Oh yeah, I guess you did.” He offers her a smile. “It’s okay, I didn’t like this one anyway. ‘S why I use it for sleeping.”

“I…” Her mouth feels even drier, and her stomach is all twisted up, like a wrecked parachute. “Did I—did I hurt you?”

“What?” His eyes widen, and he sits up all the way, though his legs remained pinned under hers. “No! No, of course not. You just—it’s just a T-shirt, Beck. It’s no big deal. Really.”

Somehow, Beck doesn’t feel reassured by that response. She knows something happened last night—knows she had another—another _brain thing_ , has memories of holding onto Steve, of his voice murmuring on and on until it entered her dreams—but the details are slippery, and she can’t recall exactly what happened. She pushes the shreds of the T-shirt aside, running her flesh hand over his chest to make sure.

“I didn’t—you would tell me, right? I don’t want—I don’t want you to hide it from me, if I… Steve.” She swallows hard, makes herself meet his eyes. ( _The Asset_ _will not make eye contact. Ever. Understand?_ ) “I don’t—remember exactly what… what happened,” she admits. Her voice is nearly a whisper. She looks away. “I need—I need to be able to trust, that if I don’t remember…”

“I’ll remember for you,” he finishes. In his mouth, it sounds like a promise. “Of course, Beck.” He rubs her back in small, soothing circles, his mouth a line of determination. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“You promise I didn’t hurt you last night?”

“I promise.”

She lets out a breath, lets her hand drop from his chest. “Okay.”

***

They visit Tony Stark in the afternoon, coordinating the meeting through the strange, British-sounding computer-voice that lives in the walls.

“I don’t like that thing,” Beck complains as they leave Steve’s apartment.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, madam,” says the voice, startling her again. “If there is anything I can do to improve your satisfaction—”

“Yeah,” Beck snarls, straightening from a fighting stance and re-sheathing her knives. “ _Stop fucking talking to me_ without warning! And don’t call me madam, either!”

There’s a moment of silence, then a sound of running water and rustling leaves. JARVIS says, “Would it improve matters if I presage my speech with soothing woodland noises?”

Beck stares at the nearest camera for a few seconds before she manages to pull herself together. “Yeah,” she says finally, defeated and also a little—gratified? “Yeah, that’ll work.”

They reach Stark’s floor, and JARVIS, true to its—his?—word, makes the woodland-noise thing before saying, “Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts are waiting for you in the conference room, Captain and—”

“I swear to God, if you call me madam one more time—”

“Respected individual who has not yet given me a title to work with,” JARVIS finishes smoothly.

Beck is pretty sure he’s making fun of her. Can AIs _do_ that? “Beck,” she says. “Beck works just fine.”

“Very well. I shall announce your arrival.”

The elevator doors slide open, and they step out into a large, opulent room with a sunken floor, way too much furniture, and an actual chandelier on the ceiling. There’s a literal bar on one side, and about a jillion windows, and a giant marble statue of a guy getting strangled by snakes in one of the alcoves. There are a million places where an assassin could hide, and it’s far too open while managing to have really shitty sightlines at the same time.

It makes Beck’s heart-rate go up just standing there. “What the fuck,” she says fervently.

Steve shrugs. “Tony likes display, Pepper likes art. You get used to it. The conference room is this way, c’mon.”

She follows him down a hallway, the back of her neck prickling with all the places someone could get the drop on her from here _. Stark must be insane to live in a place like this_ , she decides. _Insane_.

“Here we are,” says Steve, and she hears JARVIS announcing them inside as he opens the door.

There are two people in the conference room (also a large table [thick enough to use as cover if turned on its side], twelve chairs [could be used as weapons or distraction in a melee], large windows [exit if necessary, possibly vulnerable to airborne attack], and a tray laden with teapots, pastries, and the like).

The man, whom she assumes is Tony Stark, is short, white, and dark-haired, with an air of manic energy about him. He looks… familiar, somehow, in a way that’s not quite right, but she’s sure she’s never seen him before. She has an unsettling feeling that he ought to be dead.

The woman is taller than him by several inches, light-skinned and red-haired, and she’s wearing an expensive pantsuit with the ease of someone who’s used to them.

Beck mentally catalogues where all her knives are (Steve insisted she leave her guns in his apartment) and very carefully does not draw any of them, even though she’d really like to.

Stark is moving and talking before they’re even through the door.

“Hey there, you must be the Murderbot assassin girlfriend. I’m Tony, Tony Stark, Ironman, the best Avenger, clearly—hey, nice hoodie, by the way, I have to say, I was _not_ expecting pink but it’s quite the look, definitely goes with the whole resting-murder face—”

“Tony,” says the woman quellingly, and to Beck’s surprise, he shuts up. “Hi,” the woman says. “I’m Pepper Potts, the CEO of Stark Industries.”

“And my girlfriend,” Stark butts in.

“Fiancé,” Potts corrects.

“I haven’t proposed yet!”

She shoots him a Look. “It’s the modern age, dear, you don’t have to. Anyway, you’ve had Happy carrying that ring around for you for eight months. I can read between the lines.”

Stark gapes at her, and she gives him a serene smile before turning back to Beck and Steve. “Anyway. Welcome to Stark Tower. Please, do sit down.”

They sit down, and Beck notices that everyone automatically picks seats where they don’t have their backs to the windows or doors. She supposes it’s comforting that even an insane person like Stark isn’t completely ignorant when it comes to reasonable precautions.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” Potts asks.

“Something stronger?” adds Stark, pulling a flask from somewhere.

Steve looks like he’s trying really hard to keep a straight face. “Tea is great, thanks,” he says. “Beck, what about you?”

It’s a simple choice, but the fact that it’s a choice at all, and she’s making it in front of strangers, is both thrilling and deeply unsettling. It takes her a moment before she finally says, “Coffee. With sugar.” The bit of her that she thinks of as Becky stirs in her brain, and she adds belatedly, “Please.”

“Of course.” Potts starts pouring drinks. “How are the clothes?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure what would fit you, so I just got a range of sizes.”

She feels something loosen in her chest, warm and soft like a kitten curled up in there. She remembers, now, that Steve had said the clothes were from Pepper. When they got here last night, she’d been too foggy to think about it, other than to feel extraordinarily grateful for the array of soft cotton shirts and pants laid out in her room, in nice colors so different from anything she remembers from HYDRA.

The grey yoga pants and pale pink sweatshirt she’s wearing right now are cozy, warm, and comfortable, loose enough to conceal a number of weapons without impeding her mobility.

“They’re nice,” she says softly. “I like them.”

Potts smiles. She has a nice face, kind and open. “I’m glad.”

“Okay, yeah, clothes, great,” says Stark. He’s practically vibrating in his chair. “Can we get to the big stuff? Like when do I get to see your arm?”

Steve raises his eyebrows, extending his right arm across the table. “I didn’t know you were so interested in my arms, Tony.”

Stark gives him a pained look. “Har-freakin’-har, Rogers. I was talking to Terminator here.”

Steve closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Please don’t call her that, Tony.”

“Whatever.” Stark leans forward. “Hey, C-3PO. Wanna show me your arm?”

Beck scowls at him as ferociously as she knows how, stuffing her left arm deeper into the pocket of her sweatshirt. “No.”

The scowl must work, because he actually scoots his chair away from her. “Wow. Okay. Not going near the arm, noted. No need to get—I mean, that face is impressively—wow.” He glances at Steve. “I thought you said she was all charming, and shit.”

Steve merely shrugs, but when Stark looks away he turns his head just enough to show her a small, private smile.

Potts taps her fingers on the table, gaining their attention. “Okay,” she says. “So. Steve, you and Beck said you need help from us. We’re willing to provide that, but we need an idea of exactly what we’re getting into, here, and what you need from us.”

Steve shifts, looking both awkward and serious.

_He never did like asking for help,_ Beck thinks, and then wonders how the hell she knew that. She knows it’s true, though: his discomfort is written all over his face, his shoulders squared back like he’s about to get into a brawl. She moves her leg just enough to kick his ankle, gently, and he darts her a brief look, and relaxes just the tiniest bit.

_There you go, Rogers. Get that stick out of your ass and ask, already. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with needin’ a little help, once in a while._

_Thanks, Becky Barnes_ , she thinks sarcastically, but doesn't get a response. That's probably for the best.

“Beck needs psychiatric help,” he says. “We need to keep her safe from HYDRA, especially since they still have—triggers—they can use to… um…”

“Control me,” Beck supplies, voice flat.

“Exactly. And at some point we’re going to need—I mean, she’ll need some kind of… amnesty, or something—”

“So, lawyers, guns, and money,” says Stark, slurping his coffee. His brow furrows as he registers their blank expressions. “Warren Zevon? No? What kind of eighties kids are you, anyway?”

Steve sighs. “I was seven when the eighties ended, Tony. I wasn’t exactly up on pop culture at the time.”

“I don’t remember the eighties,” says Beck, deadpan, and Potts and Stark look horrified while Steve does the pained expression that means he’s trying hard not to crack up.

“Right,” says Potts, after a long moment of silence. “So, I’m going to put down some categories, and we can list what you need, sound good?”

Beck nods, because she likes Potts already, despite herself, and the woman probably doesn’t deserve all the bullshit she’s put up with in the last ten minutes alone.

“Okay.” Potts touches something on the table, projecting a holoscreen over the table. As she speaks, writing appears on it in bright letters, the colors changing based on category. “So, right now, I’d say your needs are psychological, physical, legal/political, security—”

“Securical,” Stark interrupts. “Securital?”

She ignores him. “And intel. Let’s start with the physical, shall we?”

The rest of the meeting is mostly a conversation between Steve and Potts, who makes suggestions and offers solutions with brisk efficiency. Stark interrupts from time to time, usually with weird tangents and innuendoes, but every now and then with a suggestion that’s genuinely helpful. Beck stays quiet for the most part, trusting Steve to know what she needs.

They discuss therapists and something called PTSD, disassociation, brain damage, and a bunch of other stuff that probably means Beck’s brain is pretty fucked up. Stark offers to do a scan for damage, which Beck reluctantly agrees to—she hates the idea of this guy poking around at her mind, but it’s obvious that Steve thinks it’s a good idea, and she’s increasingly willing to do whatever Steve thinks best.

Potts offers to set up food deliveries to their apartment so they don’t have to go grocery shopping, and makes a list of clothes that Beck still needs.

“The legal aspect will take time,” she says. “I have several people I’ve worked with in the past who I think can be very helpful, but of course we want to be discreet as possible. I’ll start working on it and keep you updated.”

“Thank you, Pepper,” says Steve. He looks overwhelmed. “This means… a lot.”

“It’s our pleasure,” she assures him. “Now, about security measures…”

“Finally!” Stark sits upright from where he’s been slouched in his seat, and rubs his hands together. “Okay, so the security here is already top-notch—we’re in, like, the top three of most secure buildings in the world—”

“Top five, sir,” says JARVIS, announcing his presence with woodland noises. “Discounting facilities so secretive that I have been unable to analyze them.”

Stark waves a hand. “Three, five, whatever. The point is, this place is harder to get into than Fort Knox. Actually, that place is child’s play, remind me to tell you about the time I got in there on a dare. Anyway, the point is, I’ve come up with some improvements.”

It turns out that Stark’s “improvements” involve a full-scale overhaul of the Tower’s security, with a number of fairly impressive upgrades. Beck finds herself enthusiastic in spite of herself—she’d forgotten that this was part of the Winter Soldier’s skill-set too, the ability to infiltrate anywhere, to slip through the tightest security in the world like a ghost.

“So you’re telling me JARVIS scans for DNA and heart-rate, but that doesn’t guard against abduction—

“Yeah, but you forget, JARVIS is intelligent. He knows the difference between abduction and—”

“AIs can be fooled,” she says dismissively. “If someone finds a weak spot in his coding, they can exploit his facial recognition software.”

“ _If_ they find a weak spot in his coding.”

“All codes are breakable eventually. What I’m saying is, you need a backup.”

“A backup AI?”

“Say there’s enough security threats to overwhelm JARVIS—I assume he’d cut power to some areas, right?”

“Well, yeah, but we’ve got generators—”

“But _his_ focus would have to shift.”

Stark raises a finger, then stops, making an “oh” shape with his mouth. “So what you’re saying is, overload his sensors until he has to rely on basic input for less important functions—”

“And then use standard tactics to fool the biometric data.”

He sits back. “ _Genius_.”

“Should I be concerned, sir?” asks JARVIS.

“No, no, I can fix this, but… how do you feel about a baby brother?”

“I should think you would want something more advanced, sir.”

“It’s a figure of speech.” Stark turns to her, eyes gleaming. “So, assuming a physical infiltration, we’ve still got safeguards preventing anyone from getting up here.”

“Air ducts.”

“What?”

“The air ducts. I could get from this room to Steve’s apartment without ever touching the floor.”

Stark shakes his head. “That’s impossible, they’re too small.”

She jabs her finger at the schematic now hovering in the middle of the table. “The space is plenty big enough. You’re just depending on the actual conduits taking up too much room for a person to fit in. But they’re just plastic, right? So they can actually just be shoved aside or even shattered.”

“Okay, but JARVIS—”

“You’re relying too much on JARVIS. That makes him your weak point.”

He folds his arms. “I still don’t believe you can actually get to Steve’s floor through the air ducts.”

And something about that goes shooting straight to the part of her that got into a million back-alley fights and crazy stunts back in Brooklyn, and she’s standing before she even thinks about it, her stance wide and easy and a cocky grin on her face.

She hears Steve’s muttered “Uh oh” in the background, but all her attention is on Stark.  “You wanna bet?”

“You’re on.”

 

Half an hour later, she’s sitting in Steve’s apartment, exhausted, dusty, and triumphant, Stark has had a tantrum, and Steve is laughing so hard she’s afraid he’s going to bust a lung.

 ***

Later, when they’ve eaten dinner and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Steve turns to her, twisting a cleaning rag in his hands. “Hey, Beck?”

Her entire body goes tense, expecting something bad. “Yeah?”

“I wondered… I wondered. If you could, maybe, do me a favor.”

She stares at him for a long moment, arms folded protectively over her chest. “What is it?” she finally asks.

Steve chews his lip for a second, then says, slowly. “That file. The one with…”

“I know what file you’re talking about, Steve.”

“Okay. Yeah. I just…” He trails off, looking hunted, and twists the rag some more.

“You said you would get it for me, once we got here.” She keeps her voice flat, masking her sudden nervousness. Is he about to go back on his word?

“Yes,” he says quickly. “Yes, I did, and I am—I mean—” He stops, takes a breath. “It’s here,” he says. “I got it today and it’s—I put it in my room.”

She just looks at him, waiting. The rag starts to come apart in his hands, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s just—I thought it might be—a bit much—for you to… go through it. Right now. You’re—there’s so much going on, and I… I wondered…” He visibly braces himself, squaring his shoulders and jutting out his chin. “I was hoping you might agree to—to not look at it. For now.”

There’s a buzzing in her ears, and she stares at him for a full ten seconds before she figures out anything to say. “You promised,” she manages at last. He flinches at the accusation in her voice. “You promised you’d give it to me.”

He raises his hands in the familiar not-a-threat gesture, pieces of damp cloth fluttering unheeded to the floor. “I know! And I will. You can have it any time you want. I’ll even—I’ll give it to you right now, if you want. But…” He takes a breath. “I’m asking you to wait before you read it. Just—just for a week. Just until you’ve—got your feet under you, got used to—everything—here.”

Steve meets her eyes, all sickening sincerity. “It’s up to you, Beck. I’m just—I’m asking you. That’s all.”

She heaves a breath of her own, feeling some of the panic dissipate. “Bring it to me?” she asks quietly.

He shoots her a quick, questioning look, but goes into his room and comes out. The file is in a boring brown folder, with a stamp across the top saying “CLASSIFIED”. It could be one of a million government documents, squirreled away in some forgotten filing cabinet; it could contain anything.

She brushes the cover with a finger, feeling the roughness of the thick cardstock, as though she can somehow process the contents through osmosis; as though, with a touch, she can understand all that’s been warped and taken from her.

Steve covers her hand in his, and she looks up, into his worried blue eyes.

“Beck,” he says softly. “Please.”

For a long moment, she hesitates. There’s an urgency within her, a need to know, to understand everything that’s happened—who she is, and what she’s done. But Steve has done so much for her in the past few days, and she trusts him.

“Why?” she asks at last.

Steve closes his eyes briefly, as though in pain. “It’s not—good,” he says, when he opens them again. “It’s—what they did to you, what they made you do. It’s—it’s pretty sickening, actually.” He exhales, hard. “I know you want to see it. I—I know you need to. I just… can’t we just have a few days to… get used to this? Set up appointments, settle in, find stuff you can eat besides toast and mashed potatoes—”

“It won’t make it better,” she says. “When I do read it. Putting it off won’t—it won’t help anything.”

“It won’t hurt anything, either,” says Steve. “Not for just one week. I know I’m asking a lot. But—just—I’m asking you, Beck. I’m asking you to let it be.”

She looks from his face to his hand, still covering hers, to the file that holds the secrets of a monster. And perhaps she’s a coward, too—perhaps she doesn’t, after all, want to know the bloody details of what she’s done. Perhaps she wants to rest on the small triumphs of today, of Tony Stark’s astonished face and Pepper Potts’s kindness, of crawling through the ceiling vents and eating mashed potatoes and apple sauce without bringing it back up.

“One week,” she says, finally. “No more.”

“Okay,” says Steve, with obvious relief. “Okay. Thank you.”

She nods, and steps away, letting him scoop up the file and return it to its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" by Warren Zevon. It was released in 1978 and became popular in the early 80s, hence Tony's comment about Beck and Steve not being proper eighties kids.  
> The statue in Tony and Pepper's apartment is "Laocoon and His Sons", the original of which is displayed in the Vatican. Is this a copy, or did Tony acquire it somehow? You decide!


	4. Only You in the New Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck wrestles with insomnia. Steve takes her to the gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for mentions of imprisonment/torture, flashback of simulated drowning, and discussions of past torture/near-death experiences. Details in the end notes.  
> That said, this chapter's still pretty fluffy.

_The year drags on. I hoard the emptiness of this bed,  
my dreams all mountain passes and grief of separation._

_I never see letters from home arriving with wild geese,  
only you in the new moon, that moth’s eyebrow rising._

\-- “Sent Far Away”, Wang Wei (trans. David Hinton)

That night, she lies in the too-soft bed in the too-empty room and breathes in and out, in and out, until she can’t stand it anymore and has to get up. The apartment is silent, the perimeter clear. She doesn’t go outside.

At last, tired of pacing, she returns to her room. The bookshelf in here is empty. It looks like this room is barely ever used—just a place to store stuff, if the pile of boxes against the wall is anything to go by.

 _What’s in there?_ she wonders. She hadn’t really thought about it before—it’s none of her business, and she’s been trained not to ask questions—but now she’s suddenly, overwhelmingly curious about what Steve’s keeping in there. He doesn’t seem the type to have a lot of extraneous stuff lying around.

For a moment, she sits still, torn between curiosity and fear. _The Asset will not ask questions. The Asset will not pry. The Asset does what it’s told…_

_I’m not the Asset anymore. I can look in those boxes if I want to._

_If you break the rules, there will be punishment. Pain._

_Steve doesn’t care. If he didn’t want me to look, he would’ve told me._

_What if this is a test? What if you fail? What if—_

“I’m looking in the damn boxes, okay,” she growls to herself, and crosses over to them.

It still takes her a moment before she can bring herself to open the first one. Her palm goes all sweaty, and her lungs feel like they’re constricted for a few seconds before she gets ahold of herself, breathes in deeply through her nose, exhales, and peels back the cardboard flaps.

The box, as it turns out, contains blankets. Two are—knitted, no, _crocheted_ , in bright colors, purple, green, and blue for one, red, orange, and gold for the other. There’s a name for this particular kind of blanket, she knows, and struggles with it for a moment before setting it aside. _Not important._ The other two are quilts, one with little hexagonal patches arranged into flower shapes, and the other a diamond pattern, with fabric pieces in every shade of blue, purple, and grey, some with clouds or stars on them, others with birds—silhouettes of swallows and arrowheads of geese—or feathers floating on a silver-grey background.

She spreads them out on the bed, considering them. The fabric is faded with use and washing, and deliciously soft when she rubs it between her fingers. They’re so beautiful, and she doesn’t understand why they’ve been hidden away. They’re a lot nicer than the boring, straight-from-the-catalogue bedspreads Steve’s got now. She pets them again, turning to the next box.

This one has bed linens—old ones—and embroidered pillowcases and tablecloths, all neatly folded up. _These must be the ones Grandma Carol used to make all the time,_ she thinks, and then wonders who the hell Grandma Carol is—was—and whether she was Steve’s grandmother, or hers, or the relative of someone else entirely.  She pokes at the memory, trying to tease out further details, but her brain remains frustratingly blank. She has an association of “Grandma Carol” with these old, embroidered things, the hint of white, wrinkled hands steadily working needle and thread, and that’s it. If memory is a thread, this one is broken, both ends waving loose in the breeze.

There are a couple of boxes of clothing—women’s sweaters and skirts, meant for a taller person than Steve used to be, and a few boy’s polo shirts and pullovers.

The next one she opens contains a tea set, all carefully wrapped in yellowed newspaper, as well as plates, mugs, and a couple of candleholders. She painstakingly unwraps them all, stacking  them on the dresser. She lingers longest over the tea-set; it’s blue and white willow-ware, and it strikes her somehow—these everyday objects, still imbued with a loveliness, an elegance beyond what’s needed to function.

Beauty hasn’t had much place in her experience so far; her life has been contained within the bare, concrete walls of her cell at various HYDRA facilities and the blood-soaked parameters of her missions, sedation and mind-numbing boredom interspersed with violence. She’s been a tool, a weapon, for so long she didn’t even realize this was missing—the oh-so-human impulse to have nice things, pretty things, for no practical reason.

The stuff in these boxes, though—they’re a reminder that people, real people, like to have more than just the bare necessities. It is, perhaps, part of what’s been bothering her here, in Steve’s apartment, though it’s only now that she can put her finger on it. Steve’s place is functional, but it doesn’t feel like a home. Perhaps this absence of beauty, of personhood, is why.

The next box is full of odds and ends with no discernible connection: tchotchkes of the ceramic-kittens variety, a small wooden box containing jewelry and an antique watch, an extremely ugly cuckoo clock, a bunch of aprons with logos saying things like “Kiss the Cook” and “My Kitchen, My Rules” on them, a shoebox full of Christmas ornaments, several lopsided, handmade pottery cups and bowls, and about thirty CDs and cassette tapes.

She finds pictures in the next one: a watercolor of a city street that she’s pretty sure is Steve’s, a print of a painting of onions, and several black-and-white photographs of people she doesn’t recognize, which look to have been taken somewhere around the 1930s or 40s. There’s a wedding photo of a man and a woman in their late teens or early twenties; she doesn’t recognize them, but she can see a bit of Steve in the stubborn line of the woman’s jaw and the teasing edge to her grin, and in the steadiness of the man’s blue eyes. She spends a long time looking at this picture of Steve’s parents, wishing she could recall anything about the pretty, blonde woman in the white veil. The man, at least, she has an excuse for not remembering; he died long before Becky Barnes ever met Steve Rogers.

There are photos of Steve, of course—school pictures, mostly. It’s odd to see him with long hair, small and painfully thin but still beaming at the camera. One catches at her—he’s got to be around fourteen or fifteen in this one, and there’s a definite difference between this and the earlier ones: he’s still smiling, but it’s not as carefree—his chin is lifted, like he’s facing down some great challenge, and his eyes are shadowed, the remains of a bruise fading on his cheek. His hair is short, and he’s wearing a polo shirt that’s too big for his skinny frame.

She wonders what was going on that day, what had happened to settle that great weight on his shoulders, the tension in his mouth. If she asks him, will he remember? Or has it faded for him, too, the events of the past fifteen years pushing aside older memories, the comparatively insignificant ups and downs of adolescence? She bites her lip, and sets the photo aside.

The last pictures in that particular box are a pair of framed sketches. One is of the woman she’s sure is Sarah Rogers—she’s older than in the wedding picture, and she looks tired, with lines around her eyes and in her forehead. The drawing is far from perfect—she can see that some of the proportions are off, and the lines aren’t very precise—but something shines through, nevertheless: a measure of kindness and love, visible in every stroke of the pencil.

 _He loved her_ , she thinks, and doesn’t know why that feels so important—the woman was his mother, after all, and most people do love their parents—but it does. Steve doesn’t do anything by halves.

The other drawing is of Becky—she’s in her mid-teens, smiling and confident, with her head tilted at an angle, dark hair hanging over one shoulder in waves worthy of a Disney princess. Again, Steve has captured a great deal of emotion, and again, his love for the subject is so obvious that Beck finds herself biting her lip, unable to look away.

 

It’s around three-thirty when she finishes looking through everything, barring a couple of photo albums that she places on her bookshelf to examine later. Most of the stuff—the clothes, linens, knick-knacks—she puts back, but she can’t bring herself to wrap up the tea-set again. She leaves it on the top of her dresser, along with the pictures and dishes and a slightly lumpy ceramic vase with “SR” carved on the underside. After a little deliberation, she puts the sky-quilt and the purple and green afghan (so _that’s_ what they’re called) on her bed, folding the other two over the back of the desk-chair; maybe, now that she’s gotten them out, Steve will want them in his room. If he doesn’t, at least they’ll lend a little color in here.

She also keeps open the box she found that must be from Steve’s old room—it contains his sketchbooks and art supplies, some obsolete video games, CDs and a beat-up Walkman, and a collection of karate belts ranging from white to black.

There are also posters, which she examines with fascination. Most of them feature people with weird hairstyles, glaring or pouting at the camera like it personally offends them, and she’s pretty sure they’re all musicians—“Green Day”, “Nirvana”, “Rush”, and “Rage Against the Machine”. In direct contrast are a couple of motivational posters with generic backgrounds, slogans proclaiming “Believe in Your Dreams” and “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars”. They look like the kind of thing you’d find in a classroom, something some adult thought kids would find inspiring, and wonders what it says about Steve that he had them, that he’s kept them. Then again, these boxes seem like they’ve been here a long time. He might not even remember that he has this stuff.

She finds a CD from one of the bands featured on the posters—Green Day—and loads it into the Walkman. Nothing happens.

“JARVIS?” she whispers.

“I believe that device will need fresh batteries in order to operate, if it isn’t broken,” he says, equally quietly. “Captain Rogers generally keeps batteries in the top drawer to the left of the fridge. Or I can play that album for you on your phone, if you would prefer.”

Beck glances at the StarkPhone lying on the bedside table. She hasn’t bothered to remove it from the packaging; there didn’t seem to be any point, when she doesn’t even know how to work the thing.

“I should be happy to assist you with setting up the phone, if you wish,” says JARVIS smoothly. She doesn’t know whether to be bothered by the fact that he’s read her so easily. At the moment, it’s just a relief not to have to explain herself.

“Yeah, okay.” She pulls the phone out of the box, inserting the SIM card and plugging it into the wall without thinking about it. Maybe she’s used one of these before, or maybe it’s just not particularly complicated. At any rate, she gets the phone booted up and running with only minimal prompting from JARVIS, and after about ten minutes, the AI is able to download the album for her.

She plugs in the earbuds that came with the phone and lies down on the bed, letting the music wash over her. It’s not exactly relaxing—the lyrics are angry, confrontational, and bitter, backed up by harsh guitar chords and fast drumbeats—but there’s an odd sort of catharsis to it, anyway. Behind the bitterness, there’s a hopefulness, to it, too; a refusal to go down without a fight. She can see why it would have appealed to Steve, and she can picture, so clearly it might be a memory, the skinny, teenage boy with his newly-short hair, lying on his back like she is now and yelling along to the defiant lyrics.

She doesn’t go to sleep, not really, but she achieves some sort of stillness that carries her through the first album and into another one by the same band. By the time _American Idiot_ finishes, it’s five-thirty, and she feels justified in getting up.

Steve comes in just as the coffee pot finishes percolating, rubbing a hand through already sleep-tousled hair and making it all stand up on end.

“Hey, Beck,” he says. “There enough coffee for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.” He pours himself a mug, and grins when she hands him the leftover half of her sugar packet. “Thanks,” he repeats.

She shrugs, embarrassed. “I was up.”

“Were you—did you have trouble sleeping?”

She nods.

“Aw, Beck, I’m sorry… if I’d known… you coulda woken me up.”

“Then neither of us would be sleeping,” she points out.

Steve shakes his head. “I’d rather that than you lying awake by yourself.” He pauses. “Did you get _any_ sleep last night?”

She hesitates, unsure what to tell him, but apparently that’s answer enough.

“Beck,” he says, laying a hand on her arm, “listen. If it gets bad, tell me, okay? You know I just want to help you.”

She stares at her coffee, fighting to ignore the emotions buzzing through her. She wants to scream at him to leave her alone, leave off, go somewhere and never come back, and simultaneously she wants him to wrap himself around her, envelop her with his warmth and power and surety, and never let go.

“I know,” she says finally, with an effort, and leaves it at that.

***

Steve doesn’t push her, just finishes his coffee and starts making porridge, adding protein powder because she’s sure as hell not getting enough nutrition otherwise. He wants to tell her that he’ll sleep with her if it makes her feel better, but he’s afraid that might make things worse. What if she reads more into it than he means, and thinks he’s trying to proposition her? Even worse, what if she doesn’t feel comfortable refusing him? They’ve kissed twice, and she called herself his girlfriend, but he doesn’t want to assume anything. She’s been through hell—he doesn’t want to cause her any more pain because of a thoughtless word or action.

“Steve?”

He jerks, startled out of his thoughts.

Beck is looking at him with a furrowed brow. “I think the oatmeal is burning.”

“What? Oh, shit.” He quickly removes the pan from the stove, and starts ladling the porridge into two bowls. The bottom part is, in fact, burnt and stuck to the bottom of the pot, but the rest tastes fine.

“Here,” he says, placing one of the bowls in front of her. “It tastes alright to me, but let me know if it’s weird, okay? I can always make more.”

“It’s fine,” she says, though she hasn’t taken a bite yet. She’s frowning at his bowl, and he has a second of wondering whether she wants his, instead, before she says, “You don’t have to eat it, you know.”

“What?”

“The porridge. You don’t have to—just because I have to eat it, doesn’t mean you can’t have something else. I’m not gonna get… you know, jealous, or anything.”

“Beck,” he starts, and then stops, unsure how to make this better. “I’m fine with this,” he settles on. “I really don’t care what I eat, and this is pretty easy.”

She stabs her spoon into the oatmeal a bit more viciously than necessary. “I just… I don’t want—just because I’m stuck like this, I shouldn’t be… dragging you down.”

 _Ah. We’re not just talking about the oatmeal, then_. “Beck, you’re not dragging me down.”

She gives him a flat look of disbelief, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re not, okay? I’m—I’m relieved, I’m glad to have you here with me, safe, and I don’t care what I eat or where I go or what I do, as long as you’re here.”

She chews on this, and the oatmeal, for a while. “That’s probably not healthy,” she says eventually.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Everyone keeps telling me that.”

“Because it’s true?”

He resists the urge to smash something, because he is an adult and is perfectly capable of controlling his emotions, thank you very much. Instead, he very carefully relaxes his hands on the tabletop, and leans forward a little. “Listen, Beck,” he says. “I’ve been—I told you, right, that I like just that little bit of sugar in my coffee?”

She nods, clearly confused about where this is going.

“I’ve been drinking my coffee black. For years. Because it seemed stupid, to just use half a sugar packet, and I could have used half a teaspoon, instead, but just—it was something we shared, you know? And it felt weird, to have it that way, when you weren’t there to use the rest of the sugar.” He takes a deep breath. “I know it sounds stupid. It _is_ stupid. But that’s—that’s been my life, since you—without you. It’s been black coffee, and it’s not… bad, and I’ve learned to like it, live with it, and I thought… I really thought I was doing okay, you know? I thought I’d moved on. But… it was—I found you, and it’s like—all of a sudden, I’m realizing how much was missing, how I was—it’s like, when I had asthma, and I just thought that was normal, you know? Never being able to draw a full breath, always—always having to work, and now—all of a sudden I can _breathe_ , and it’s—the past ten years, I’ve just been… taking air in and out.” He gives her a rueful smile. “I guess that probably doesn’t make much sense. I just… you have to know, Beck. I don’t care what the hell I’m eating, as long as I’m eating it with you.”

She stares at him for a long time, then sighs. “You’re crazy,” she says, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining the fondness in her voice.

“Crazy about you,” he responds.

Her mouth tilts upwards. “That was terrible.”

“Hate to tell you this, Becks, but you’re gonna have to get used to it. There’s a whole lot more where that came from.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.”

“You looove me,” he sing-songs, without really thinking about it, and immediately regrets it when she makes a choking sound. Before he can do anything, though, he realizes she’s actually laughing.

“You’re a basket-case, Rogers,” she gasps. “Why does anyone put up with you?”

“Must be my stunning good looks,” he says, grinning at her.

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t your personality.”

They both crack up at that, and Steve finds that he’s more relaxed than he’s been since they arrived at the tower.

“Hey,” he says, when he can concentrate again. “I was gonna go down to the gym after breakfast. You wanna come?”

She hesitates.

“Come on,” he wheedles. “It’ll just be us—it’s just for the Avengers, anyway, and most of them aren’t even here. And it’s too early, anyway—nobody else is gonna be there until at least 9 or 10.”

“You’re sure?”

“’Course I’m sure. I can have JARVIS warn us if anyone’s coming down, anyway. There’s a track and a climbing wall and a pool and everything.”

“Well… okay.”

Now it’s his turn to pause, suddenly worried he’s talked her into something she doesn’t really want to do. “Are you sure? I don’t mean to—I didn’t mean to pressure you, or anything—”

“Jesus, Steve, calm down, I said it was okay.”

Steve worries his lip with his teeth, still anxious, and Beck rolls her eyes. The expression is so _Becky_ that he can’t help but smile at it.

“Steve. It’s _fine_.” She gulps down the last spoonful of oatmeal, makes a face, and gets up. “Come on.”

***

The gym isn’t as bad as she expected. She’d thought it might be like the training rooms she’s used to, bare and bleak and stinking of blood and sweat. Instead, the Avengers’ gym is a series of huge, high-ceilinged rooms, laid out for different activities: a weight room, a climbing gym with real-looking rock walls and a ropes course, a boxing ring, a shooting range, and a swimming pool, with an indoor track looping around them all. The rooms all have windows or skylights, and several of them even have potted plants tucked into the corners. The effect is light, airy, and, well, _pleasant_ , even if there is an undercurrent of sweaty gym gear permeating the place.

“What do you want to do first?” asks Steve, once he’s shown her everything.

She stalls out for a moment, as she always does when offered a choice, but Steve just waits patiently until the itchy feeling under her skin goes away and she can answer. “Climbing wall.”

It’s completely unlike anything she did for HYDRA’s training, so it should be safe. She can barely even look at the shooting range without feeling like her skin is too tight.

“Cool. You want me to belay you?”

The wall is about forty feet high. It’s very unlikely that a fall from that height would even injure her seriously, let alone kill her.

“Beck?”

Then again, it would still hurt, and… she doesn’t _have_ to take the risk, she realizes, feeling a little lightheaded. She’s so used to pain being an inescapable part of her daily life, but—it’s not _necessary_ here. There is nothing to endure, nothing she _has_ to endure if she doesn’t want to.

Steve is peering at her with a worried little wrinkle between his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

 She blinks, shaking herself out of it. “Yeah. Okay.”

Climbing is… good. Really good. It’s challenging in all the best ways, testing her strength and balance and ability to strategize. She finds herself smiling without meaning too, whooping when she reaches the top of a particularly hard route. It takes awhile to identify the sense of lightness in her chest, but when she does, she realizes she’s having _fun_.

The realization makes her throat go all tight again, as though she’s going to cry, but somehow it feels good, like she’s letting go of something.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Steve calls, and, _oh yeah_ , she’s supposed to be coming down.

“Falling!” she says, putting her weight on the rope.

“Fall away.” Steve takes her weight, lowering her to the floor, and when her feet touch the ground she realizes she’s grinning from ear to ear.

They climb for a couple of hours, until they’re sweaty and grimy and gross. Beck is a little sore, but in a good way; it has nothing to do with punishment or mission-readiness, and everything to do with simple enjoyment. It feels far too good to be true, and she knows she doesn’t deserve it, but… Steve is smiling, happy in her happiness, and she shoves the darker thoughts to the back of her mind.

_Let me just have this. Just for now. Just for a moment._

“You wanna swim?” Steve asks.

They go to the pool. Beck strips to bra and gym shorts while Steve changes into proper swim trunks. She should probably wait for him, but she’s hot and sweaty and the water looks _wonderful_.

It’s not until after she dives in that she realizes her mistake.

The water closes over her head, the force of her jump driving her to the bottom, and…

_Dark, cold water closing in above her; she struggles desperately to reach the surface, but something is holding her down. Frantic, she thrashes and squirms, trying to get away, but she’ s stuck, weighed down. Something hits her, driving the last air from her lungs, and water fills her nose and mouth, burning her throat…_

She struggles desperately to reach the surface, weight pulling her down—

Her head pops above the water, eyes opening as she takes a gasping lungful of air.

There’s nothing holding her down.

The water is warm and clear, the air of the room humid and pleasant, and Steve is just emerging from the changing room, relaxed and smiling.

She can breathe.

She’s safe.

Beck takes another deep breath, then another, latching onto the side of the pool. The panic begins to subside, leaving her shaky and weak.

_Breathe. You’re safe._

“Couldn’t wait thirty seconds for me?” Steve teases, walking over to her.

Her expression must give something away, because his smile disappears in an instant. “Beck? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I just…” She trails off, angry with herself for being so _weak_ , for being so _fucked up_ that she can’t even dive in a pool without having a panic attack.

“Beck?”

“I… remembered,” she mumbles, shamefaced. “When I dove in, I—I thought I was stuck. That I wouldn’t—that they wouldn’t let me back up. To the surface.”

She feels like an idiot, but Steve just nods, like this makes sense. He sits down, dangling his legs in the water, and she leans her head against his knee without really thinking about it. His hand comes to rest on her hair, stroking softly, like a benediction.

“There was awhile where I couldn’t swim without freaking out,” he says. “I’d get in the water and I’d just… it was like my whole body seized up, and everything just—I’d just panic.”

She frowns at him, wondering whether he’s just making this up to make her feel better. “Why?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I told you a bit about the whole thing with Schmidt, right? The Valkyrie?”

“That plane,” she says slowly. “The one that was going to nuke all those cities?”

“That’s the one.” His fingers tap a nervous beat on his knee. “I crashed it into the ocean.”

“But you—you weren’t on it when…”

“No, I jumped out. But.” His eyes are a little unfocused, looking at something in the middle distance that she can’t see. “It took awhile for them to find me, you know? And I was just… out there, and I… I honestly thought I was going to die. It just… it’s not that I minded it. Dying. If I’d gone down with the plane, it would’ve been different. But I… just being out there for hours, and not knowing… I could feel myself getting—weaker, colder, and all I could think was I was so _alone_. And I—I wanted to go out fighting, _doing_ something, not… just, helpless, just sinking down…”

“Steve,” she says quietly, then stops, not sure what else there is to say.

“It doesn’t bother me now,” he says. His voice is a little stronger, and he gives her a smile that doesn’t really reach his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on about it. I just—I guess I just wanted you to know that—I get it. Not everything, obviously, but this, I… anyway. If you want to—talk about it…”

She isn’t actually sure if she does want to talk about it, but it seems fair. He’s given her this, this vulnerability, and it feels right to repay it in kind.

“I think it was when they first had me,” she says, piecing it together. “I think they—there was water. And they, I think they blindfolded me? And I was—I had to jump in, or they pushed me in, and they wouldn’t let me back up. I don’t—they must have pulled me out in the end, but I… that’s what I remember. Being under, and being… trapped.”

Steve squeezes her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Beck.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I—”

“It’s _not._ ” She glares at him, exasperated. “Steve. It’s not your fault.”

He looks back, just as stubborn. “If I’d’ve just—”

“No. Seriously, Steve. Stop it. You’re not—you’re not making it any better.”

He shuts up at that, looking surprised and maybe ashamed. “Okay,” he says. “You’re right, I’m s—I won’t… I’ll try to stop doing that.” He hesitates. “And you know it’s not your fault either, right? What they did—it wasn’t your fault.”

She’s not sure that’s true. Even if it wasn’t her _fault_ , precisely, there’s a large part of her that thinks she deserved it. Still deserves it. But she doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, and knows that arguing the point with Steve will just drag it out. It’s easiest just to agree with him.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Beck.”

“ _Okay_ ,” she repeats irritably, and backs away from him, treading water. “Are you coming swimming, or not?”

Steve gives her a _look_ , one that she easily interprets as _we’re not done talking about this_ , but walks toward the diving board. “Fine. I’m gonna do a flip.”

“You’re Captain America. Are you seriously showing off to me by doing _flips_?”

“Well, you’ve never seen me do one before,” he says, bouncing on the edge of the board. “Anyway, all my other skills are old news by now.”

“All of them, huh?”

Steve, for some reason, blushes. “Uh,” he says, and jumps.

It’s a good flip, as far as Beck can judge. By the time Steve surfaces, she’s also figured out why he got flustered. It gives her some ideas, but she doesn’t act on them. Not yet.

“Nice flip,” she says, when he comes up next to her, grinning and shaking the water from his hair like a dog. “Bet I can do better.”

His grin fades a little. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Not really, but…” She swims to the side, levers herself out. “I want to. Anyway, fuck them. What am I supposed to do, be terrified of water for the rest of my life?”

Steve still looks concerned, but he gives her an encouraging nod. “Sure. Fuck them.”

She hesitates at the edge of the diving board, not quite as certain as she’d like to appear, but Steve is smiling expectantly, and the water is blue and warm and clear, and maybe if she keeps doing this, she’ll stop remembering eventually. Beck backs up, then runs, flips, and plunges in.

There’s still the sensation of being dragged down, still the fear of not being able to breathe, of being trapped, but she knows to expect that now, _knows_ it’s not real, and when she fights her way to the surface, Steve is there.

“I don’t know, I still think mine was better.”

“Dick.” She splashes him, and Steve’s smile gets wide and dangerous.

“Oh, is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is.”

And that’s how they end up in a splash war, and then a race to the end of the pool and back (Steve wins, but only, Beck maintains, because the metal arm weighs her down), and a competition to see who knows the most swim strokes. Finally, worn out, they float on their backs in companionable silence, watching the water’s reflections dancing on the ceiling.

“I was wondering,” Steve says eventually, then stops.

Beck flips upright in the water to look at him, noting the little frown lines crinkling around his eyes. “What?”

“Just… how do you feel about… visitors?”

“Visitors?”

“Well, one visitor.”

She waits, silent, and Steve switches to treading water, too, bringing them face to face.

“It’s Sam,” he says. “He asked if he could come over.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. Or anytime! It doesn’t have to be today, but he asked, and I thought…”

“Sam Wilson,” she says, carefully prodding the data in her head. “The Falcon.”

He looks relieved. “That’s right. He’s—he’s a really great guy, Beck. And he’ll be happy to see you so—” He breaks off, flushing.

 _He’d make a terrible spy_ , she thinks. “We’ve… met?”

He bobs his head, looking guilty. “In D.C. You kind of… uh… wrecked his car? But, I mean, it wasn’t _you_ , he understands that—”

“Steve,” she says, as nicely as possible, “I _know_ I was brainwashed, alright? That doesn’t make me—that doesn’t erase it. What I did.”

“But—”

“He can visit,” she interrupts, just to avoid the argument.

Steve brightens immediately. “Really? You’re sure? Because if it’s too much…”

“I can handle it.” _I hope._ “Just… do I have to—be there, the whole time?”

“You don’t _have_ to do anything,” he says immediately, sharply, like he’s arguing with the whole of HYDRA by proxy.

“Okay, but…”

“If it gets too much, just tell me. Sam will understand.”

Beck swims lazily toward the shallow end, tired of treading water. “I just… I don’t want to… make you look bad. In front of your friend.”

“Beck.” He catches up to her, stands up as their feet hit the bottom. Water streams down his chest in rivulets and gathers on his eyelashes, gleaming in the light from the windows. He puts his hands on her shoulders, light and very, very warm. “Nothing you could ever do or say—I could never be ashamed of you. Okay? Never. No matter what.”

She touches a finger to his sternum, rubbing gently, and feels him shiver “Maybe you should be.”

“Nonsense.” His hands drop to his sides; she clocks the movement in her peripheral vision, but can’t seem to remove her own hand from his chest. He’s so very warm.

“Beck…”

“What?”

“Will you look at me?”

She looks up. His eyes are very, very blue.

“I love you,” he tells her quietly. “It’s okay if you don’t feel like that, I don’t need—you don’t need to feel obligated, but… I love you. And nothing is going to change that, okay?”

She moves closer, unconsciously, until their chests are touching, and gives in to the temptation to run her fingers through his wet hair. “Okay.”

He smiles, then, and it’s that, more than anything, that gives her the courage to kiss him.

This time around, he tastes like chlorine, and a little bit like coffee. His skin is smooth and slick, muscles and ribs and vertebrae rippling under her hands like clay. Standing waist-deep in the water, denuded of weapons, they are both exquisitely vulnerable, exposed in their very closeness. Steve’s hands rest on her hips, not moving, as she presses against him, his lips warm and chapped beneath hers.

She can feel the tension in his arms, the hitch in his breath and the uptick in his heartbeat, the way he melts against her when she bites his lower lip, but he doesn’t attempt to control their embrace, allowing her to call the shots. She’s grateful for it; his unassertiveness makes it easier to let go of her fear. She doesn’t have to keep track of his hands when they stay solid, unmoving, on her hips, nor jerk away from a kiss that goes to deep, when he opens his mouth to let her in.

She pulls back a little, resting her forehead against his. Steve’s cheeks are flushed, and she can feel his pulse racing when she presses her fingers to his jaw.

“You okay?” he asks huskily.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes, okay. Better than okay. Beck…” He raises his hand, slowly, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, brushing her cheek before landing on her hip again. “You’re so beautiful.”

“I think you need your eyes checked, Stevie.”

“No, I… Beck.” He meets her eyes, all earnest affection. “Can I touch you?”

She nods, a little apprehensively, but Steve doesn’t move his hands. Instead, he lowers his face to her shoulder, kissing the place where skin and metal join, mouthing at the scars that run like ugly spiderwebs across her chest and neck. The contact makes her shudder.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” she manages. “Yes, it’s… don’t stop.”

He lifts his head enough to grin at her, then goes back to kissing her, warm, wet heat moving over metal and flesh and scar tissue. His thumbs rub slowly against her sides, a steady, reassuring rhythm, and she can’t quite help a gasp when Steve half kisses, half bites the side of her neck.

“Okay?”

“Yes, _please_ , Stevie.”

She’s trembling all over, heat coursing through her, and Steve is _right there_ , grounding her with his hands even as his lips make her fall apart. She raises her own hands, cupping the back of his head and stroking his back, and Steve sighs in a hot gust against her collarbone, arching into her touch like a cat.

“Okay?” she asks, echoing him.

She feels his lips curve into a smile, and he presses another kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Yes, Beck, it’s good, it’s…” The rest of his words are lost against her skin.

She’s tingling, fizzing wherever he touches her; the sensation is almost too much, too overwhelming after so long without any sort of human connection.  Finally she can’t stand it anymore, and tugs gently at his hair, bringing his face level with hers.

“Beck?”

“It’s good,” she says breathlessly. “Just… can we…” She gestures to her own mouth, and Steve laughs, equally breathless.

“Fuck, yes, of course.”

This time, when they kiss, Steve is less cautious, licking her lips and teeth, pulling her closer until there’s no space at all between their bodies.

It’s alright, she finds; she’s eased into this, now, and she can still feel exactly where his hands are, and he still moves slowly, gently, enough that she can easily direct him if she needs to.

She doesn’t need to, though; he kisses her and she kisses back and it’s _perfect_ , his hands on her back and her fingers tangled in his hair, the smell of chlorine and the water lapping around their hips and the way their heartbeats echo each other, beat for beat, in the big empty silence of the room.

It lasts until JARVIS interrupts them to tell them that Agents Barton and Romanov are on their way to the gym, and they make their escape, buzzing and satisfied and giggling like children in their wet clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Beck remembers her captivity with HYDRA, and has a flashback of being forced underwater. Steve discusses his near-drowning experience after the Valkyrie, and Beck talks about her flashback.  
> The title is from the poem "Sent Far Away" by Wang Wei, translated by David Hinton.  
> The albums Beck listens to are "Warning", released in 2000, and "American Idiot", released in 2004, by Green Day. Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I think Steve definitely would have been an angry punk kid.  
> The hexagonal quilt is a "grandmother's garden" quilt, probably made by Steve's grandmother or great grandmother.  
> The "lopsided" pottery is the results of a pottery class Steve took in high school.  
> The onions print is "Onions" by Renoir.  
> The "Oh, that's how it is?" exchange is, of course, stolen from the dialogue between Steve and Sam in TWS.


	5. Sitting Among Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson visits. Pepper sends food. Beck gets triggered by Disney (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Some stigma toward mental health issues expressed by the person with those issues. Normal Winter Soldier stuff, non-graphic.  
> Everyone needs a hug.

 

_And down in the canyon_  
_The smoke starts to rise._  
_It rides on the wind_  
_Till it reaches your eyes._  
_When faced with the past_  
_The strongest man cries...cries_.

_And here is a sunrise_  
_To set on your sill._  
 _The ghosts of the dawn_  
 _Moving near._  
 _They pass through your sorrow_  
 _And leave you quite still..._  
 _Sitting among souvenirs._

\--“Souvenirs”, Dan Fogelburg

 

When they return to Steve’s apartment, they find a cardboard box, apparently full of groceries, waiting in front of the door. Beck checks it carefully for bombs, despite JARVIS’s assurances that it's perfectly safe.

The AI proves correct: the box is full of things like yogurt and instant oatmeal and something called quinoa; there’s also a box of chlorophyll, for some reason, and a lot of dietary supplements that Beck is instantly suspicious of.

“I talked to my nutritionist,” Potts explains when Steve calls to thank her. “Obviously I didn’t explain the exact circumstances, but I told her we were doing some charitable work with veterans recovering from surgery… which isn’t exactly a lie, but—anyway. She said you really should just stick to soft foods at first, and introduce other things one step at a time. I emailed you a protocol, if you want to look it over.”

Steve lines the supplement bottles on the counter. “Thanks, Pepper. I can’t even tell you—”

On the projection screen, Potts waves a hand, looking embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to help, you know that.”

“Thank you,” says Steve again. “Could you—uh—explain the supplements? I’m not familiar with all of these…”

“Of course! Magnesium, that’s to improve calcium absorption and muscle health, then there’s probiotics and digestive enzymes—hopefully those will help with the food issues, and Vitamin D because pretty much everyone’s deficient, anyway…” She goes down the list, explaining what the different vitamins and supplements are for, while Steve takes notes in his spiky shorthand.

“—and of course, Vitamin C for immune system support,” she finishes. “It’s in the PDF I sent you, so don’t worry if you didn’t catch all of that.”

Steve casts a sheepish look at the notepad under his hand. “Thanks so much for looking into all this. I can’t believe you found a nutrition expert on such short notice.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” says Pepper cheerfully. “She’s my personal nutritionist, I’ve worked with her for years.”

Beck raises her eyebrows, mouthing _personal nutritionist_? at Steve, hopefully out of sight of the screen. Steve shrugs very slightly back.

“Well, thanks a million, Pepper, this has been really helpful.”

“No problem!” she says cheerfully, and hangs up.

Steve runs a hand through his wet hair, making it stick up in the back. “Well,” he says, a little rueful, “I guess now we know why the canned soup thing didn’t work out. I probably shouldn’t’ve given you anything that wasn’t pureed.”

“The tomato soup was,” Beck points out.

He frowns, reaching for his phone. “I’m gonna look that up. Why don’t you get dressed? And then we can try some of that yogurt.”

Beck thoughtlessly moves to obey, then catches herself, and turns back. “Nope. I’m going to take a shower,” she announces. “And _then_ I’ll get dressed, if I want to.”

He gives her a bemused smile. “Sure, whatever you want.”

It shouldn’t make her feel shivery to have this minor instance of—not exactly insubordination, but—assertion, without repercussions, but it does. Steve must catch something in her expression, because he touches her shoulder, the little crease reappearing between his eyebrows.

“Babe? You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She smiles at him, then, daringly, presses a fleeting kiss to his lips.

Steve’s eyes flutter closed, even at that brief touch, and his cheeks flush.

“I’m going to shower,” she repeats, and saunters down the hall, feeling far more pleased with herself than she has any right to be.

 ***

She’s not sure whether she wants to recognize Sam Wilson or not. On the one hand, any little scrap of memory feels like something precious, to be hoarded and treasured; on the other, she doesn’t particularly want to revisit any of her time as the Winter Soldier. Thinking about what Steve has told her, she’s suddenly, pathetically grateful for Stark and Potts: among Steve’s friends, they’re the only ones she has no unfortunate history with. It’s nice to know that there are at least a couple of people with whom there are no hidden mines to trip over, no previous interactions to account or apologize for.

“You’re doing your sniper thing,” says Steve. “You okay?”

She blinks and looks up at him, realizing that she’s been sitting on the couch without moving for… she’s not sure how long. “What?”

“You’re doing your sniper thing,” he repeats. “Where you go all still and stare blankly into space. I, uh, I was assuming it’s a stress response?”

“Stress response?”

“That’s what my therapist called it. You know, it’s, like, the reaction you have when you’re under pressure. I mostly fidget, but some people do other stuff. I thought—well, it seems like you do the—the freezing thing—when you’re nervous.”

She twists her spine, stretching out muscles that have cramped from sitting still too long. “Did I used to do that? Before?”

Steve chews his lip. “I don’t… think so. I don’t remember it, anyway.” He pauses, clearly thinking back. “You used to click pens sometimes, in school. You know, the ones with the button tops? Drove me crazy.”

So this, the stillness, is something new. It makes sense, though, now that she thinks about it. “I wasn’t allowed to move,” she says aloud.

Steve looks horrified. “What?”

“I mean, I wasn’t…” She makes a gesture, trying to fill in the gaps in her words with her hands. “With the handlers, I wasn’t supposed to move unless they told me to. They didn’t—” She stops, aware that her pulse has picked up, that she’s breathing fast and shallow. “It was… control. Down to—down to the last twitch. If they told me to stop breathing… I would have. I did.”

Steve’s face does something complicated and tragic. He slumps down on the couch next to her, letting all his breath out in a whoosh. “Jesus, Beck.”

Instantly, she feels guilty. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, Beck, no, you don’t—you don’t ever have to apologize, okay? I just…” He turns toward her, palm open in invitation. “I just hate that they did that to you, is all.”

She takes his offered hand, twining her fingers through his, and tries to settle herself. “It feels safer,” she says eventually. “Being still. Like… nobody can see me, nobody will know I’m there. And I’ll be safe.”

Steve nods, as though that makes any kind of sense, and squeezes her hand. “As long as you feel safe, Beck. That’s what matters.”

 ***

Sam Wilson has sharp cheekbones and dark skin and kind, dark eyes, and a smile that lights up his whole face when Steve opens the door.

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

“Good.” Steve hugs him, then stands back to let him in. “How are you? How are things in DC?”

Wilson shrugs. “Same old, same old. Well, except for everyone still being kinda shook up after that whole mess you made in April.”

“Oh, the mess _I_ made, huh? I seem to remember a couple other people being involved.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, blame it on HYDRA, you superhero-types are all the same,” says Wilson, joking, and then catches sight of Beck where she’s standing in the doorway to the hall. His smile doesn’t go away, but his face… _dims_ , a little bit.

“Hi,” he says, and his tone is polite, kind, even, but the warmth and humor from a moment ago is gone.

Beck’s metal hand clenches into a fist inside the pocket of her sweatshirt.

“Sam,” says Steve, “this is Beck. Beck, Sam Wilson.”

“Nice to see you again, Beck,” says Wilson, which Beck translates as, _Nice to have you not trying to murder me._

“Hi,” she says, and tries smiling the way she’s been practicing in the bathroom mirror. It feels stiff and awkward, like something that’s been stuck to her face. “Sorry about your car.”

Wilson looks surprised. “You remember that?”

She lets go of the smile. It probably wasn’t working anyway. “No, I… Steve told me. So. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, still with that easy smile that no longer reaches his eyes. “Hey, don’t worry about it. They got me a better one, so… you know. No harm, no foul.”

“Okay,” she says, not sure what else to say.

There’s an awkward silence, broken by Steve, who says, “You want something to eat, Sam? Cup of coffee? Beer?”

“Beer sounds good. And I brought donuts from that place you like…”

“Oh, no way! Thanks, man, you’re the best.”

They keep up an easy stream of banter as they move into the kitchen. Beck hovers, uncertain, at the edges of their conversation, trying not to draw attention to herself. This is normally something she’s good at, but somehow Wilson’s thoughtful gaze keeps finding her, like a searchlight in a prison yard.

He doesn’t interrogate her, or really talk directly to her at all; when he speaks, his body language makes it clear that he’s addressing her as well as Steve, but he doesn’t seem to expect a response. It’s… considerate, and would probably put her at ease if she wasn’t so afraid of misstepping in front of him.

 _Idiot_ , she tells herself. _You weren’t like this with Stark._ But the fact is, Stark, though objectively more important in the grand scheme of things, very obviously has almost no sway over Steve’s decisions. From everything she can gather, Steve’s relationship with Stark is complicated at best, and downright antagonistic at worst—Stark’s opinions clearly mean very little to him, at least outside of things like technology and security.

Wilson, on the other hand, is one of Steve’s closest friends. Steve values his judgement, which makes him far more dangerous to Beck. It’s imperative that she make a good impression on him; unfortunately, considering she’s already tried to kill him at least once and is currently tongue-tied, there’s a good chance she’s already blown it.

“You remember my niece, Carly, right?” Wilson is saying. “She just turned five, check this out.”

He holds out his phone, and Steve peers at it, his smile going all soft around the edges the way it does when Beck lets him draw her. She feels intensely, irrationally jealous.

“You wanna see?” Wilson asks her.

Reluctantly, she goes to look: a child with bright plastic beads in her hair is grinning at the camera, sitting behind a blue-frosted cake with a weird sort of statue on top of it. The girl is wearing a blue, sparkling dress that matches the statue’s.

“Elsa, right?” says Steve.

 _No, it’s Carly, Steve,_ she thinks. _He said her name was Carly._

Wilson grins. “Yep. She’s obsessed, her entire room’s practically a shrine to _Frozen_.”

They’re not making any sense. Beck hands the phone back, using all her self-control not to crack it in the process. _How did I screw up her name already? Why is her room frozen? Is this a code? Is this a test?_

“Beck?” Steve asks quietly. “Something wrong?”

 _Nothing_ , she means to say, but what comes out is, “You shouldn’t let them.”

“What?”

“The—girl, you can’t put a child in a frozen room, you shouldn’t—the cold isn’t good for them, she’ll—she’ll shut down, and you don’t know the procedures—”

Steve is staring at her in utter confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“You—you said…” She trails off, wrong-footed and unsure. Did she miss something? Is she crazy?

“Oh,” says Wilson, in sudden understanding. “Oh, no, Beck, it’s not… _Frozen_ is a movie, a Disney movie. My niece, she’s obsessed with Queen Elsa, from the movie.”

Beck can feel herself flushing, dull heat creeping up her neck. _Stupid. Stupid, you’ve gone and freaked out over nothing._ “Sorry,” she mutters.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Wilson says easily, but Beck can’t relax.

She can’t stop thinking about being put in stasis, about the cold and the drugs and the way it burned when they brought her out of it. Steve and Wilson’s conversation swirls around her, and she can’t keep track of it, can’t concentrate long enough to latch on. She can feel herself going still, retreating, and—she can’t do this. Not here. Not in front of Wilson.

“Steve,” she says, a little more loudly than she intended.

They both look at her.

A wave of shame engulfs her— _you’re being weak, you’re embarrassing him_. “I’m going to go lie down,” she gets out.

“Oh—of course, Beck, yeah, you must be tired—”

“I’ll see you later,” she manages, and flees before anything more can be said.

She goes into her room, and slumps down beside the door, leaving it ajar. She needs to know what’s being said in her absence, needs to know if Wilson somehow persuades Steve she’s not worth the effort.

At first, there’s just silence; she can pick up Steve’s quiet footsteps, the clink of Wilson’s beer bottle, the rustle of the donut bag.

Finally, Steve sighs, and says quietly, “You’ve got something to say, you might as well spit it out.”

“Okay, I will. I’m… concerned.”

“Why? We’re—she’s making progress, getting better…”

Wilson sounds tired. “I know, Steve, I know. But I—I also know how much you _want_ her to be making progress. I don’t want to be Debbie Downer, here, but it’s only been a few days. You need to be prepared in case something goes wrong.”

“I know. I am. The file—”

“You know what’s been done to her—some of it, ‘cause we both know there were gaping holes in that thing. That doesn’t mean you can predict what might trigger her, what might cause an episode. You’re walking on a minefield, here, Steve.”

Steve voice takes on a stubborn tone. “I’ll deal with it. What do you want me to do, Sam, lock her up?”

“No, I just want you to be careful for once in your goddamned life!” The irritation in Wilson’s tone fades back into concern. “I’m not the bad guy here, Steve, I’m not trying to—to break up your happy little reunion, or whatever. I just…” He sighs. “I feel like you have expectations.”

“I don’t want anything from her, Sam. I just… I want her to be happy.”

“And you? You got anything to make you happy?”

There’s a long silence, and then Steve says softly, “I’m working on it.”

Beck presses a finger against the door until it clicks shut, then allows herself to slide down against the wall. Her right temple is throbbing insistently, though she’s not sure whether that’s due to Wilson’s visit or lack of sleep. She’s supposed to be able to go up to seventy-two hours awake before losing functionality, but perhaps that only works under HYDRA’s protocols. _Or maybe a headache isn’t considered an impediment to functionality._

This train of thought isn’t heading anywhere she wants to go, so she shuffles away from the wall and grabs some more of Steve’s CDs.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes?”

“Can you queue… on the phone, can you get—” she glances at the cover of the first CD—“Bruce Springsteen?”

She had assumed, from the title, that this would be something patriotic—maybe even affiliated with all the Captain America stuff. Instead, Springsteen’s music proves just as angry—just as rebellious—as Green Day.

 _“Born down in a dead man's town_  
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground  
End up like a dog that's been beat too much  
Till you spend half your life just covering up.”

Beck lies on the floor and lets it wash over her, the kind of righteous anger that Steve has in spades, that she can’t seem to summon up herself. She wonders if it’s wrong of her not to care about getting revenge against HYDRA—whether it’s because she’s scared, or just tired.

  _“…they put a rifle in my hand  
Sent me off to a foreign land…”_

  _Me too_ , she thinks. _And I don’t know if there’s a single person I killed who deserved it._ She doesn't understand what Steve sees in her, what spark of goodness he thinks she possesses when all she remembers is killing.

 _“Down in the shadow of the penitentiary_  
Out by the gas fires of the refinery  
I'm ten years burning down the road  
Nowhere to run, ain't got nowhere to go…”

Tears leak from her eyes, and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away; just turns her face into the carpet, muffling the sound of her sobs as the music crashes in her ears.

 ***

It’s several hours later when Steve knocks on her door. “Beck? Can I come in?”

She pauses the song she’s listening to, but doesn’t bother to move from where she’s lying on the floor. “Yes.”

The door opens, and Steve looks down at her with an expression that hovers somewhere between bemusement and concern. “Sam’s gone down to the lab to say hi to Tony,” he says. “I thought I’d check and see if—is that Mom’s tea-set?”

Beck freezes. She’d meant to say something, meant to ask him, but she’d forgotten, and now…

Steve takes a step into the room, looming over her. She can barely hear him over the buzzing filling her mind. _You disobeyed, you disobeyed… there wasn’t a rule, I didn’t… you disobeyed…_

“Did you look through those boxes, then? I forgot they were in here…”

 _Do you know why you’re being punished?_ She can feel her breathing speed up, blood pounding in her ears. She attempts to make herself smaller while lying completely still, frozen and helpless and exposed on the bedroom floor.

“Beck?”

What can she say? Apologies, excuses mean nothing. There is only action, and punishment. She stares wordlessly up at him, trying to hide her panic and knowing that she’s failing.

“Beck—oh, _honey_ …” Steve kneels down beside her, taking her hand in his. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

“I—” she manages, and stalls out.

He reaches toward her with his other hand, and she flinches. Steve pulls back, looking horrified. “Beck,” he says, “I’m not going to hurt you, alright? Look at me. I’m not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you. I won’t _let_ anyone hurt you.”

He lies down on the floor next to her, shoulder to shoulder, his thumb brushing up and down the side of her hand. “I won’t hurt you,” he repeats, over and over again. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“I looked in the boxes,” she whispers at last. A tremor runs through her at the admission. _The Asset will not deviate from orders. The Asset will not ask questions._

“Is that all?” Steve turns on his side toward her, maintaining his grip on her hand. “This isn’t Bluebeard, honey, I’m not… you can look all you want, Beck, I don’t care. If I minded, I wouldn’t’ve left ‘em in here.”

“You don’t—you don’t—”

“Of course I don’t mind, sweetie. Of course not. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you it was okay. It didn’t even occur to me that you would… I’m sorry.”

She turns into him, pressing her face into his shoulder as her breathing finally slows.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing his hand up and down her spine. “I’m so sorry.”

He’s warm, unnaturally so, but she’s learned that that’s just Steve, an effect of Eskine’s serum. She breathes in the warm cotton of his shirt, the citrusy scent of his soap, and lets it anchor her. No ice, no punishment. She’s safe. Steve won’t hurt her.

“It’s not your fault,” she mumbles, when she comes back to herself enough to notice his apologies. “I freaked out. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says quietly, and she doesn’t have the strength to argue.

God, but her head hurts.

“Steve,” she says after a while.

“Yeah?”

She hesitates, not sure how to phrase the question that’s been bothering her since they arrived. “Where do you _really_ live?”

He draws back a little, giving her a confused look. “What?”

“Where do you… when you’re not here, where do you live?”

Steve still looks lost. “You’ve been to my apartment, Beck.”

 _You broke into my apartment and tried to murder me_ hangs in the air between them, but if he’s not going to mention it, she’s not.

“Yeah, but that was a… a ruse. You didn’t _really_ live there.”

“No,” he admits. “I guess not.”

“So where…?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking, Beck,” he says slowly. “I lived in D.C. for a while, before…”

 _Before I tried to murder you the first time_ , she thinks.

“Before the whole thing with the helicarriers. And, uh, before that… SHIELD set me up with an apartment in Brooklyn, for a little while.”

She frowns up at him, not liking where this is going. “You really don’t have anywhere else? A—a home?”

Steve laughs, a sharp sound that scrapes at her raw edges. “Depends on what you mean by a home, babe. But this is where I am for the foreseeable future, so I guess this is it.”

“It’s not,” she says decisively.

“Not what?”

“It’s not a home. It’s not anything, it’s…” She waves a hand vaguely at the ceiling, narrowly missing Steve’s nose. “It’s like a hotel. Why’d you pick all these boring colors, anyway?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “Tony and Pepper—well, probably just Pepper—furnished it for me. And I think the word you’re looking for is ‘understated’. Probably ‘tasteful’, too.”

“It’s boring,” she repeats.

“You don’t like it?”

 _Don’t answer that._ She presses her lips together.

“Beck… do you hate it here?” He sounds ridiculously worried, twisting around to peer at her as she tries to hide her face in his shirt. “Beck, come on, be honest with me, here. We could go somewhere else.”

They can’t, and they both know it, but she’s grateful for the suggestion. It takes some of the anxiety away from having an opinion. “I don’t hate it,” she mumbles, “but it’s so… it doesn’t feel like a home.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I guess I just… I move around so much. It didn’t seem worth the effort to make anything permanent.”

“When’s the last time you tried? To make something permanent. A house or something, I mean.”

He’s quiet for so long that she gives up hiding and peeks up at him. The expression on his face is so unhappy it hurts.

“You and I had a place in Brooklyn,” he says at last, so quiet he might be talking to himself. “It was tiny and the bathroom never had hot water, and there was no elevator, so we had to climb six flights of stairs to get to our apartment. It was just two rooms, hardly enough space to swing a cat, but… we hung our pictures on the walls, and put those glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of our bedroom, and…” He closes his eyes, voice a little hoarse. “And at night we’d go up to the roof, sit out there with a couple of beers or some shitty box wine, and look at all the lights….”

Beck finds herself unable to say anything. He’s so clearly grieving what was lost all those years ago, the version of Becky who’s gone forever, now, and she feels terribly inadequate in the face of it. He lost his best friend, his girlfriend, and what he got back was a brainwashed assassin with barely any memory and enough mental issues to keep a cadre of psychology researchers happy for years.

“I’m sorry,” says Steve. “I didn’t mean to get all maudlin on you.”

“It’s okay.” She thinks about all the stuff stored in those boxes, Steve Rogers’s life stuffed away and hidden in the spare bedroom of an apartment he barely ever visits. How long has he been living like this, all alone in these big, empty apartments, drifting from place to place with no one to anchor him anywhere?

 _No more_ , she decides. She may no longer be Becky Barnes, but Steve clearly needs someone to look after him, and since no one else has stepped up to the job, she’ll have to do.

“We could make it one,” she says tentatively.

“What?”

“A home. We… we live here, now, so we could—we could make it into a home. Together.”

It’s a risky thing to say, but it’s more than worth it to see the sunrise smile that lights up his face.

“You want to? Really?”

“Yeah.” She takes a breath. “Yeah, Stevie, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Beck criticizes herself harshly after having a panic/anxiety attack, and uses somewhat ableist language while thinking about her mental health issues. There are brief, non-graphic mentions of punishment/control mechanisms used on her by HYDRA.  
> Beck listens to the title song from Bruce Springsteen's album "Born in the USA", the cover of which features an American flag. It is... not a patriotic song. At least, not in the nationalistic sense.  
> I actually did look up protocols for people coming off a liquid diet (usually as a result of surgery) for this one. Tomato soup is super acidic, so... yeah, not a good idea for someone with a delicate stomach. The things you learn!  
> The title of this chapter is from "Souvenirs" by Dan Fogelburg


	6. Dinner and a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Sam turns into movie night with most of the Avengers. Beck copes pretty well. Steve isn't coping as well as he thinks he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up a lot fluffier than I was expecting, all things considered.  
> Spoilers for How to Train Your Dragon and Frozen.

_I know you've waited a long time, a long time_

_For me to come home--_

_No, I didn’t mean to be the mud on your feathers_

_I didn’t die, but I was reborn better_

\-- _“Sweeter”, Carrie and Fuzz Sangiovanni_

When Wilson returns, Beck is kneeling on the counter in the kitchen, holding the onion print up to the wall while Steve directs.

“No… further to the left… like that.”

“There’s no studs there, Steve,” she says exasperatedly. “There’s one here or here, which is it gonna be?”

He considers. “Slide it back to the right? Up a little… there. That’s good.”

“About time. Hand me a pencil.”

He trades her the pencil for the picture, then gives her a nail when she’s marked the spot. She holds the nail still with her right hand, using the thumb of her left to push it into the sheetrock.

“Impressive,” says Wilson, folding his arms. “That your new party trick?”

She turns slightly; he doesn’t look as wary as before, nor, despite his words, particularly impressed. Something in her settles. Wilson isn’t going to make things difficult.

“Well, it’s got to be good for something,” she says, accepting the print from Steve and hanging it.

He grins, leaning casually against the doorway. “So, what’s all this? I’m gone for two hours, and you’re already redecorating?”

“Beck found a bunch of my old stuff,” Steve explains, jumping Beck down from the counter like she’s the heroine from a romance novel instead of a dangerous super-assassin. “She thought we could, you know, liven things up a bit.”

“She’s right.” Wilson shakes his head. “Man, I’ve been telling you to do something about that bland-ass decorating scheme since D.C.”

Steve smiles sheepishly, hand going to the back of his neck. “I guess I just needed the right incentive.”

Wilson snorts, but lets it go. The walls are decorated with Steve’s sketches and pictures of his family, the red afghan is spread over the back of the couch, and the tea-set and vases are displayed on top of the kitchen cabinets. It’s not much, but… it’s a start.

***

Steve makes carrot and zucchini soup for dinner, following one of the recipes Pepper sent. To his relief, Sam and Beck seem more comfortable around each other; Beck, especially, looks more relaxed, standing at the counter peeling carrots instead of going to hide in her room.

He finishes dicing the onions and dumps them into the saucepan, replacing the lid as they begin to sizzle. “Hey Sam, you wanna grab the potatoes for me?”

“Oh, you’re making me _work_? You treat all your guests like this, Rogers?”

“You practically live here anyway, Wilson, you don’t count. In fact—”

Sam stabs a finger at him. “Uh-uh, no way. I have a very nice house in D.C., thank you very much. I am _not_ moving to New York just so I can babysit a bunch of depressed superheroes.”

“Easier than trying to babysit us from Washington,” Steve points out.

“Nope, not happening. He and Stark, they both think all of life’s problems can be solved by moving into this tacky monstrosity of a skyscraper,” he adds to Beck.

There’s a pause, while Beck looks at him in open surprise at being addressed directly. Steve finds himself holding his breath.

“That,” she says deliberately, “explains so much.”

Sam laughs, bright and easy, and Steve finds his shoulders relaxing. _It’s going to be alright._

He purees the soup and adds protein powder, because Beck needs all the help she can get. This morning, in the pool, he could see every one of her ribs and vertebrae, and the hollows around her eyes aren’t just due to exhaustion. It’s nerve-wracking, trying to take care of her like this—he’s so afraid of doing something wrong, of not giving her what she needs, and he wonders if this is how she used to feel, back when he was sick all the time.

_“Just one bite, Stevie, come on.”_

_“I can’t, Becky, I’m gonna… I don’t feel good.”_

_“I know, I know you don’t, but you gotta eat something… you’re already skin and bones as it is.”_

_“It’s just gonna come back up again.”_

_“Well, have a little ginger ale or something, then. The doctor said you need liquids…”_

His phone buzzes. Natasha.

**Can I come over? Just got home and I don’t want to cook.**

“Beck?” he asks.

She looks up from slicing the Italian bread. “What?”

“Natasha’s asking if she can come over for dinner. Is that okay with you?”

Beck gets that tense, hunted expression on her face, but gives a jerky little shrug. “Sure.”

“If it’s too much…”

“I said it’s fine.”

He sighs, feeling like this is a bad idea, but knowing better than to push. _Give her the dignity of a choice_ , Peggy had told him long ago, and the advice applies just as much—more—now.

 **Yeah, come on up** , he texts back. **Sam’s here, dinner in 5.**

**You’re the best. On my way**

“Better set another place,” he says, and Sam gets up from his chair.

“On it.”

To Steve’s surprise, the rest of the evening goes pretty smoothly. Beck and Natasha seem to have some kind of understanding, possibly stemming from whatever they talked about in the car the other night. They don’t speak much to each other, but there’s a palpable lack of tension between them, and Beck actually seems a little relieved when Natasha deliberately engages Sam’s attention for most of the meal.

Beck gets the soup down just fine, and even manages a second portion after a half-hour break to make sure it doesn’t disagree with her. Afterwards, they head to the living room, where Beck immediately tucks herself under his arm on the couch. Sam sits down on his other side, and Natasha sprawls in the armchair with her legs over the arm.

“So,” she says. “Movie?”

“Sure,” says Steve. “What do you wanna watch?”

Sam casts a sly look at Beck. “Well,” he drawls, “Beck here hasn’t seen _Frozen_ , and that’s a goddamned travesty.”

Natasha snorts. “Appropriate.”

“Beck?” Steve asks.

She makes a shrugging motion, but doesn’t seem tense, so he nods. “ _Frozen_ it is.”

***

Beck cries. She cries several different times, actually, because she can’t help but identify with the scared girl who thinks she’s too dangerous to be near the people she loves, can’t help but see Steve in Ana’s determination to save someone no one else thinks can be saved. She’d be embarrassed about her tears, but Steve’s eyes are wet and she can hear Wilson sniffing on the other end of the couch, so she figures her reaction is reasonable.

Romanov, of course, looks completely unmoved. “You guys are such a bunch of softies,” she says. “We’ve seen this how many times, now?”

“I’ve only seen it once,” says Steve, wiping his eyes. “Sam’s the one who has to watch it every weekend.”

“I’m in touch with my feelings,” Wilson retorts. “Anyway, I can hardly help it, with you two crying away right next to me.”

Romanov stretches, then flips upside-down with her legs over the back of the chair. “We should watch another one.”

“ _Brave_ ,” says Steve immediately.

Wilson shakes his head. “We can’t watch _Brave_ , Clint’s not here.”

“Well, it’s not like we have to tell him—”

“Nuh-uh, Rogers, we are not going down that road.”

“Clint’s away on mission, Steve,” says Romanov. “You can’t watch his movie without him while he’s on mission.”

“Okay, fine.” Steve raises his arms in a gesture of surrender. “You three can figure it out, I’m gonna go get some food.”

“Popcorn?” Wilson asks hopefully.

“Milkshakes. I hope you’re all happy with chocolate, ‘cuz that’s what you’re getting.”

“Add two spoonfuls of peanut butter and a little raspberry jam,” Romanov orders. “It’ll make it so much better, I promise.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but gets to his feet all the same. “Okay, Your Highness. Anyone want anything to drink, as long as I’m up?”

“Vodka?”

“I’m not going all the way to your apartment, Nat.”

“What happened to my stash here?”

“You cleaned it out last movie night,” says Steve exasperatedly. “Beck? You want anything?”

She shakes her head, and watches him disappear into the kitchen. There’s only a partition separating the two rooms, but it still unsettles her. Steve’s presence has come to mean safety, and in the presence of other people, she finds herself sorely in need of reassurance.

Wilson and Romanov, at least, are too busy wrangling over movies to pay attention to her. She pulls the red afghan closer around her shoulders and retreats into stillness, quietly turning invisible in the corner of the couch.

“ _How to Train Your Dragon_ ,” Wilson announces when Steve returns with the milkshakes. “We’ve decided.”

“That’s not a princess movie,” he points out, handing Wilson a cup.

Romanov raises an eyebrow. “Did we _say_ we were watching princess movies?”

“No, just…” He shrugs. “Seemed like where the night was going.”

“Well, we considered _Big Hero 6,_ but—”

“That one’s such a freakin’ tear-jerker, I didn’t want to be responsible,” says Wilson.

Steve’s voice is neutral, which probably means he has Opinions and is trying to keep them to himself. “Okay, whatever. We ready to start?”

“Waiting on you, Cap.”

“Okay, JARVIS, please start the movie.”

After about fifteen minutes, there’s a knock on the door, and Stark barges in with Potts in tow, demanding to know why he wasn’t informed about “movie night”.

“It’s not a movie night,” Steve protests weakly. “We just… decided to watch a movie.”

“Uh huh, I know when I’m being snubbed, thank you very much. Hey, Robocop, how’s the arm? Can I—ow! What was that for, Pepper? That was completely unnecessary! Also, there’s only one chair left, I feel like you have a distinct lack in the furniture department, Cap, remind me to order you a loveseat or something—ooh, a _love_ seat, don’t go getting any ideas, now, I don’t need the mental scarring—”

“Stark,” says Wilson, in a tone somewhere between stern and fond. “Shut up.”

“Oh—right. Sorry.”

Steve sighs, quietly enough that only Beck hears it. “There’s ice cream in the freezer. Help yourselves. JARVIS, please play.”

“Yes, sir.”

The movie begins again. There are _far_ too many people in the room, and it feels too close, too crowded; she longs to retreat to the edges, where she can see everyone and get out easily, and presses her palm against her leg, seeking reassurance from the hard shape of the knife strapped beneath her sweatpants.

Steve shifts, bringing his arm closer around her, and gives the milkshake in her hand a little nudge, reminding her to drink.

“I’ll keep watch,” he murmurs in her ear.

And just like that, she finds herself relaxing. It’s conditioning again, but this is far older than HYDRA—that deep-down part of her recognizes the words instinctively, knows that they mean safety.

_Nobody’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them._

With a little sigh, she lets herself lean into him, feeling his body heat soak into her, warming her all the way through.

***

Steve has forgotten a few significant details about this movie. Like the fact that it involves a partially disabled dragon nearly getting killed, and then being restrained, because everyone thinks he’s dangerous. Like the fact that the boy who believes in the dragon’s goodness falls, and has to have his leg amputated.

Beside him, Beck is crying again as the Vikings tie Toothless up and Hiccup tries in vain to stop them. Steve wonders if maybe they should turn the movie off, if this hits too close to home. He doesn’t want to cause her more pain.

Turning his head, he catches Sam’s eye.

 _She okay?_ Sam mouths.

Steve makes an aborted shrug, then spells _I can’t tell_ one-handed, trying to be subtle about it.

 _Is she tense?_ Sam signs back.

He tries to assess. Beck is crying, yes, but she’s all curled into him, her body limp and warm against his, and she’s wiping her eyes with her right hand. The still, coiled tension that he’s seen when she freaks out—like earlier, when Tony and Pepper arrived—is absent. As he watches, she sniffs loudly and changes position, pulling the blanket further over herself and tugging his arm down over her shoulder.

He shakes his head at Sam.

 _I think you’re okay_.

_Thanks._

_No problem._ Sam settles back in to watch the movie, and Steve goes back to watching Beck.

***

“Here, Sam, I’ll walk you back to your apartment.”

Sam’s apartment is literally across the hall from Steve’s, but he’s kind enough not to mention that fact. “Okay, thanks.”

Beck has already gone to her room for the night, but Steve is pretty sure her hearing is as good as his, meaning that she’ll have heard the exchange, and won’t be alarmed when he leaves the apartment. He and Sam walk across the hall, and Steve waits until they’re inside Sam’s apartment before saying, “I have a question for you. About Beck.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, wow, I had _no_ idea this was coming. You’re so unpredictable, Steve.”

“Shut up, this is important,” says Steve, but can’t help smiling a little. “I just—I’m worried, a little.”

“And being Steve Rogers, I just _know_ the thing you’re worried about is not going to be one of the thousand-and-one things about this situation that are legitimately worrisome.”

“You’re an ass,” Steve informs him.

“Takes one to know one.” Sam folds his arms and leans back against the door. “Come on, Rogers, spit it out.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, it’s just… she cries. All the time.”

“Steve, _everybody_ cries when they capture Toothless, that’s not—”

“I don’t mean tonight.” He waves a hand, frustrated. “I mean, yes, tonight, but not _just_ tonight. Like, I walked into her room this afternoon and she’d been crying, and yesterday when I showed her the drawing I’d done of her she started crying, and the day before that… she just… she cries a lot, okay? And I’m just—I’m concerned. Am I doing stuff that upsets her, or…?”

Sam looks thoughtful. “Actually, Steve, I think that’s a really good sign. She wasn’t allowed to express emotion for a long time, so my guess is that now, that’s how it’s coming out. The fact that she’s comfortable enough with you to cry in front of you—that’s actually pretty huge.”

His shoulders slump in relief. “So this is normal?”

“Steve, nothing about this is _normal_.” Sam shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Seriously, though, it’s actually a much better reaction than I would have expected. A lot of veterans deal with trauma through anger, or try to stuff it all down and sort of tune it out. The fact that she’s expressing her emotions this way… it’s kinda surprising. Good, but surprising.”

He claps Steve on the shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Cap. She’s working through a lot of baggage, and the best you can do is just let her know you’re there for her. Which you’re doing.”

Steve lets out a breath. “Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem. You’re getting her to a therapist soon, right? ‘Cause I’m not in the business of shrinking my friends.”

“Yeah, Pepper’s looking into it. It’s just—you know, background checks, that stuff.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam gives him a little shove toward the door. “Go on, then. Your girl’s waiting.”

His “girl” is hopefully already asleep, but Steve doesn’t say that. He just smiles and bids Sam goodnight, and trudges back to the apartment, already dreading the sight of his empty bedroom.

 _It’s enough that she’s here_ , he tells himself sternly. _You don’t need her with you at night, too._ It’s ridiculous to feel lonely with Beck right next-door, ridiculous to miss the sound of her breathing and the feel of her body against his like a physical ache, but he can’t seem to help it.

She’s right there in the apartment with him, and he misses her as though she’s a thousand miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve (and Natasha) learned sign language because of Clint being deaf. (I've never read the Hawkeye comics, so I'm basing his character on other fanfics I've read, since MCU Clint is pretty darn bland). Sam learned due to working with hearing-impaired veterans at the VA.


	7. Girl Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck and Pepper bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short. I wanted to do more with this scene, but just sort of ran out of ideas. The next chapter should be a bit more cohesive, as I've actually got it planned out.

_Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,_

_Then Beauty is its own excuse for being._

_\--_ “The Rhodora”, Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

Pepper Potts visits the next morning, while Steve and Sam are out running. They invited Beck to come with them, but Beck is feeling headachy and irritable after another sleepless night, so she declined.

“I brought some clothes for you,” says Potts. She herself is dressed in a loose-fitting cotton shirt, leggings, and a pair of thick woolen socks with leather soles. She sets a couple of big paper bags on the couch, and smiles brightly. “You want to try them on?”

Beck looks at the bags, then at Potts, frowning. “You came… all by yourself. To give me clothes.”

Potts appears confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Um.” Maybe Tony Stark isn’t the only crazy person around here. Maybe insanity is catching. “I’m the Winter Soldier?” she says, but it comes out more like a question. “I could kill you?”

Potts looks amused. “Beck, pretty much any person in this tower could kill me. That doesn’t really make you special.”

“I’m unstable.”

“So is Tony.” She steps forward to rest a hand on Beck’s arm, slowly enough that Beck can move away if she wants to. “Beck, honey, listen to me. You could kill me. You could kill Sam, or Tony, or Steve—or maybe even Natasha. But you’re not going to, because you don’t _want_ to. Just like Steve or Tony or Natasha wouldn’t harm us. It’s not a matter of ability. It’s a matter of intent.” She gives Beck’s arm a little squeeze. “Okay?”

“I could have a—an episode…”

The woodland sound goes off, followed by JARVIS’s voice. “If I may interject, Ms. Potts, Beck, I am able to analyze behavior patterns to predict future events. If it would ease your mind, Beck, I can log your behavior and alert your companions if an episode seems likely.”

It takes a second for her to parse all this out. “You can—you can _do that_?”

“That is correct.”

“Then—then, yes. The alert. Do that.”

“I shall update my protocols.”

“Thanks, JARVIS.” Potts looks at her expectantly. “Well? Do you want to see the clothes?”

She blinks, caught off-guard by how matter-of-fact Potts is, how _easy_ she makes it all seem, like she deals with amnesiac cyborg mass-murderers every day of the week. Then again, she lives with Stark, so maybe that’s not too much of a stretch.

“Okay,” she says at last, and then, making an effort, “Yes. I’d like that.”

Potts beams. “Great! Okay, so these _should_ all fit, I gave them your measurements when I ordered…”

The new clothes are… _nice._ Jeans and fitted shirts, sweaters, a bunch of different kinds of bras, even shoes. Potts insists that she try everything on, so she strips to her underwear (Potts, for some reason, blushes and averts her eyes) and wriggles into a pair of skinny jeans and a v-neck, long-sleeved shirt. They’re both tight enough that she expects them to limit her mobility, but to her surprise, the material stretches with her, allowing her nearly as much movement as the sweatpants she was wearing before.

“What do you think?”

“You look amazing,” Potts says sincerely. “Blue’s a really good color for you. It brings out your eyes.”

She looks down at herself, trying to see what Potts sees, and failing. She doesn’t see how she can look much different like this than in what she was wearing before.

Potts must sense her confusion, because she says, “C’mon, let’s go into your bedroom. You need to look in the mirror.”

They take everything into the bedroom, and Beck looks at herself in the mirror and thinks she can kind of see what Potts is talking about. The jeans hug her legs, showing off her muscles, and the shirt accentuates her hips and slender waist. It makes her look almost normal.

“I like it,” she says firmly. _I can like things. Nothing bad will happen. They won’t take it away just because I like it._

“Good! Here, let’s try this one.”

They go through the contents of the bags fairly rapidly. Beck discovers that she prefers slightly looser clothing, that she likes warm colors better than cool, and that she really _hates_ wearing black.

She finds out the latter when she puts on a black turtleneck, looks at herself in the mirror, and starts hyperventilating.

“Beck? Are you—is it the shirt? Here, why don’t you—just take it off if you don’t like it. Beck, honey, look at me. Take off the shirt.”

Beck complies, and immediately feels calmer, and very embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I freaked out.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Potts’s eyes are huge with sympathy. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” She blows out a breath. “My tac gear was all black,” she admits softly. “Seeing myself like that, it… I guess it took me back.”

“Oh, Beck… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Tears are pricking at the corners of her eyes, and it’s just so _embarrassing_ , that she can’t hold onto her emotions for _five minutes_ , and—

“Can I hug you?” asks Potts. She holds out her arms, with a hopeful sort of expression on her face, and Beck steps into her embrace.

It’s different from being hugged by Steve; Potts—Pepper? is softer, and she smells like perfume, and her long hair brushes the back of Beck’s neck. It would be so easy to hurt her, and yet she’s completely unafraid, holding Beck close like she’s a child. It shouldn’t feel like safety, but it does. Beck closes her eyes and lets herself give in.

After a minute, or maybe two, Pepper draws back a little, peering into Beck’s face with an expression of kind concern. “Better?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, flushing. “Thanks.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” says Pepper briskly. “God knows I’ve had enough panic attacks of my own. I know how it is.”

Beck stares at her. This calm, confident woman has _panic attacks_? It seems inconceivable. “You do?”

“Oh, God, yes.” Pepper reaches into the bag as she speaks, withdrawing a burgundy dress and laying it on the bed. “I mean, I had really bad anxiety when I was in college, but… well, being involved with Tony, I’ve ended up in a lot of bad situations. A few years ago, our house actually got… some terrorists, they blew it up while we were inside. We almost died. So… I have some baggage, is what I’m saying. Everyone here does.”

She holds the dress out to Beck. “Want to try this one?”

Beck takes the dress automatically, but doesn’t put it on. “You were _inside_?”

“Yeah.” Pepper fusses with a discarded shirt, turning it right-side-out. “It was… I still have nightmares about it. Still freak out over—just, little things, sometimes, get to me—fireworks, thunderstorms. Fire, heat.” She folds the shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles, turning the edges just so. “I’ve worked on it a lot, with my therapist, but I know I won’t—I can’t go back to being the same. That’s just not how it works, unfortunately.”

“Would you go back to the way you were?” Beck asks curiously. “If you could?”

Pepper hesitates, still holding the shirt. “I don’t know,” she says slowly. “I like to think that, if I hadn’t gone through any of that, I’d still—I could still be the same person, still have the same relationship with Tony—I’d still be me, just without the, you know, the trauma. But I suppose… it’s not all bad.” She smiles, a soft, brave little expression that makes Beck’s ribs ache.

“It made me think, you know? It made me realize how—how fragile life is, how important it is to, well, to be the person you want to be in the moment, I guess, and not put it off ‘til someday. And I don’t know if that’s worth all the, all the stuff we’ve been through, but I suppose it’s something.”

Beck rubs her thumb along the soft fabric of the dress, wondering whether there is anything worthwhile about the person she’s become—anything that could possibly make the last ten years worth it.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she says aloud, and is rewarded by Pepper’s smile.

“Me too. Now, let’s see how that dress fits.”

The dress fits perfectly—of course—and Beck instantly loves it. It’s soft, comfortable,  and _beautiful_ , with a cowl neck and loose sleeves that don’t hinder her movement at all, and a wide, soft belt at the waist. Pepper picks out leggings and low boots to go with it, and when she’s put them on, she finds herself staring at her reflection in disbelief.

She doesn’t look like the Asset, or the Winter Soldier. She looks like a _person_. A person with shadowed eyes and hollow cheeks, her hair falling unkempt around her face, but a person all the same.

“That looks great on you,” says Pepper. “Do you like it?”

Between Pepper and Steve, she’ll be used to this liking-things thing in no time. “Yeah,” she says. Smiles, clears her throat. “I do. I like it. A lot.”

“Good.”

“Thank you,” Beck adds, remembering her manners.

“It’s my pleasure,” says Pepper, and sounds like she means it. “If you want anything else, all you need to do is ask.”

Beck shakes her head, a little overwhelmed by so much generosity. “Thanks,” she repeats.

“Of course.” Pepper pats her on the shoulder, then heads to the door. “Shall we take a break? I could do with a cup of tea.”

“Okay,” says Beck, but she doesn’t follow immediately. Instead, she turns back to the mirror, stares at the dress, at the way it hugs her hips, exposes her throat. Her reflection is pale and weary, not threatening at all. It makes her feel warm, and a little bit sad, like looking at Steve's art. _Maybe,_ she thinks. _Maybe I can be a person again._

Then, because old habits die hard, she tucks a knife into her belt before she leaves the room.


	8. Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck tries to fix her insomnia, with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for body horror, minor flashback to forced exercise. See end notes for details.
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments, guys! They mean a lot to me!

 

 _I'm so tired, I don't know what to do_  
_I'm so tired, my mind is set on you_  
_I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do_

_You'd say I'm putting you on_  
_But it's no joke, it's doing me harm_  
_You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain_  
_You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane_  
_You know I'd give you everything I've got_  
_For a little peace of mind._

 _\--_ The Beatles, “I’m So Tired”

 

After Steve goes to bed that night, Beck heads for the workout room, hoping that if she exhausts her body sufficiently, she’ll finally be able to get some sleep.

She runs, and at first it’s good to move, to stretch her muscles on the treadmill’s highest setting. Sweat prickles along her back and runs down her face, and her breath comes faster.

The room fades out of her awareness, her own breath sounding harshly in her ears. _You will run until we tell you to stop. Understood?_

_Yes, sir._

_Run._

_Run._

_Run._

_We have not told you to stop._

_Run._

Her muscles tremble, sweat soaking through her clothes; she gasps for breath, feeling as though her lungs are on fire. She can’t stop. She mustn’t.

_Run, Soldier._

_Run._

“Beck. Beck, are you okay?”

_We have not told you to stop._

“Beck, answer me. Beck? God damnit—JARVIS!”

Her vision is fuzzy, black creeping around the edges; she feels as though she’s running down a long tunnel, her footsteps echoing oddly in her ears.

“Beck, for God’s sake, STOP.”

_Stop._

She slows, then stumbles as the treadmill tries to carry her with it. The treadmill is stopped abruptly, and she pitches forward; a pair of arms catch her before she can fall.

“Beck?”

Her legs refuse to hold her. She sinks to her knees, then pukes all over the floor, the treadmill, and herself.

“Oh, God,” says Steve, from behind her. Then, “Beck, I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

She thinks she nods; everything feels distant, abstract, muffled in the grey fog trying to take over her head.

The fog clears a little when he picks her up—she feels his arms at her knees and back, the warmth of his chest against her cheek, and the swooping sensation of being lifted and carried. He deposits her in a chair, and when her head stops swimming—or at least, swims slightly less—she realizes they’re in the kitchen.

Steve holds a glass to her lips. “Can you drink this for me?”

She drinks. It’s water, lukewarm, and it chases away a little of her confusion, enough that when Steve refills the glass, she holds a hand out for it, and raises it to her mouth without help.

The third glass contains orange liquid, tasting overwhelmingly of salt.

“It’s Gatorade,” says Steve. “It’ll help.”

She drains this glass, too, then stares at him blearily. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt and gym shorts, and his hair is sticking up all over the place. He looks—scared? Or… concerned. It occurs to her that he must have been sleeping.

“I woke you up,” she says.

“God, Beck, don’t worry about that.” He hands her a banana—something added to the list of “good” foods only this morning. “Can you eat this, do you think?”

“I,” she says. “Maybe.”

She eats it, and takes another sip of the Gatorade.

Steve settles into the chair across from her. “Okay,” he says, in a voice that is trying to be calm, but doesn’t quite manage it. “Can you tell me what that was about?”

She closes her eyes briefly. It sounds so stupid, said out loud. “I was running. I forgot—I forgot I could stop.”

“Oh, Beck,” he says softly. He doesn’t sound mocking, just sad. “Is this—did HYDRA…?”

“I guess.” She takes another drink of Gatorade. “I don’t—remember, exactly, I just—I thought I couldn’t—I wasn’t allowed to stop. Not until they said.”

“Christ,” Steve says.

There’s a long pause. She sips the Gatorade, eyes on the table. She doesn’t have the nerve to look at his face just now.

“You want some saltines?” he asks eventually.

“Okay.”

He brings her the box of crackers, hovers while she chews through them slowly.

“Why were you running, anyway? I thought—I mean, you know I would’ve gone with you, if you wanted to go to the gym, or something.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t—I thought it would maybe help me sleep.”

“You’re still having trouble sleeping?”

“Um.”

His tone sharpens. “Or you haven’t been sleeping at all?”

She winces.

“Beck, what the hell? I thought you’d—you said you’d tell me!”

“I didn’t-- that's not what I said.”

“Okay, well, I thought you knew—God, how long has it been since you last slept?”

She looks at the table.

“Beck. How long?”

“Since the first night. Since we came to the Tower.”

“That’s three days!”

She hunches in on herself at the anger in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What—no, Beck, it’s not your _fault_ , jeez, I just wish you’d told me—we could’ve done something.” He throws himself into the chair across from her. “You want more Gatorade? Water?”

She shakes her head.

“Okay.”

She can feel him looking at her, can almost hear him thinking; she wishes she could guess what he’s thinking _about_.

“Would it help,” he says at last, hesitantly, “if you slept in my room? With me? Not—I just mean, sharing a bed, not… nothing, you know, intimate, or whatever. I just… you seemed like you could sleep before, when we were—when we weren’t in separate rooms.”

She raises her head to look at him. He looks both nervous and hopeful, and when she meets his gaze he ducks his head, flushing.

“Sorry. Stupid idea. I just thought… if you wanted…”

“You don’t.” She clears her throat. “You don’t mind?”

“No! I mean, no, of course I don’t mind. I would, uh. I’d like that.” He takes a breath, as though admitting to something heinous. “I haven’t slept so well myself, without you—near.”

He’s not lying, she knows. And she’s so tired, and she wants so much not to be alone, to hear his breath and feel his warmth, to know that he’s nearby….

“Okay.”

He perks up, like a golden retriever catching sight of a tennis ball. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay! Then… if you don’t need anything more to drink… you want a shower?”

She looks down at herself, soaked with sweat, her shirt stained with vomit. “That’s… probably a good idea.”

“Do you think you can walk, or do you want me to carry you?”

“I can walk.” She gets up, and nearly falls down again; her legs are trembling too violently to support her properly. She catches herself against the table. “Maybe I could use a hand,” she concedes.

Steve wraps his arm around her waist. “Oh, are we making arm jokes, now?”

“Fuck you,” she says, leaning into him. “You gonna judge me on semantics ‘cause I lost an arm? That’s… that’s _prejudiced_ , you oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

“I know, I’m a terrible person,” says Steve, steering her into his bathroom. “You gonna be okay in here?”

She sits down on the side of the tub. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll get you some towels and pjs, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He gives her another worried look, opens his mouth as if to say something, then changes his mind and hurries out, closing the door softly behind him.

Beck undresses and sits on the floor of the shower, letting the hot spray wash over her. It seems to take a great deal of effort to move, and she keeps forgetting what she’s doing halfway through, but eventually she’s clean and warm, and her head aches a little less.

When she finally heaves herself out of the tub, she finds a couple of towels, her pajamas, and one of Steve’s T-shirts waiting for her on the vanity, along with her toothbrush. The T-shirt is soft and worn and smells like Steve: she puts it on immediately.

Once she’s dressed and has cleaned the taste of bile from her mouth, she opens the door to Steve’s bedroom. He’s changed into a different t-shirt and boxers, his hair damp and spiky from his own shower, and he’s got a pillow tucked under his chin while he wrestles it into a pillowcase.

Her gaze travels from the pillow to the neatly-made bed. “Did you… did you change your sheets for me?”

“Yup.” He finishes stuffing the pillow into the case and tosses it onto the bed. “You feeling a little better?”

“You didn’t have to. Not for me.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, and gestures at the bed. “Which side do you want?”

And it’s such a small choice, such a meaningless little decision, but suddenly, it’s too much. She’s exhausted, mentally and emotionally, and she just—can’t. She sinks wordlessly to the thickly-carpeted floor.

Steve is across the room in an instant, crouching beside her. “Beck? Babe, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” she murmurs, leaning into him. “Please, just… I can’t. I can’t make any more—choices—tonight.”

“Oh, honey,” he says softly. “That’s okay. Just let me take care of you.”

He gathers her into his arms, and she lets him, wrapping one arm around his neck to help him carry her to the bed. Setting her down, he pulls the blankets over her, tucking her in like a sick child.

“This alright?”

This bed is firmer than hers, but the pillow is soft as a cloud, the sheets silken against her skin. “Yeah, Stevie. I’m good.”

“Good.” He climbs in next to her. “JARVIS, please dim the lights to my usual.”

“Very good, sir.”

The overhead light, and the lamp beside the bed, turn off. Another set of lights, set in recesses along the joins between ceiling and walls, dim to a dull orange, so the room is almost, but not completely, dark.

She looks at the way the light stripes across the counterpane, and has a sudden vision of a small room, light filtering between the slats of the cheap plastic blinds, throwing patterns on a wooden floor.

_“Becky? Are you awake?”_

_“Well, I am NOW. Can’t sleep with you whispering at me, can I?”_

_“Oh.” The voice is small, chastened._

_She sighs and hangs her head over the edge of her mattress, looking down at the small face peering at her from the bottom bunk. “It’s okay, Rache. What did you want?”_

_“I  just… I can’t sleep…”_

_She sighs again, but Rachel is little, still, doesn’t know how to lay quietly in the dark and quiet her own fears enough to sleep._

_“Okay, Rachie. I’ll tell you a story. But after that, you have to go to sleep, okay?”_

_“Okay.”_

“Okay, Beck?”

She blinks, clearing the vision from her eyes, and turns her head to look at Steve. “What?”

“Is this okay? Or is it too bright?”

“It’s good. Steve…”

“Yeah?”

“I had—I had a sister.”

His voice goes all soft. “Yeah, Beck.”

He doesn’t say, _I told you that already,_ or _You had three sisters, actually_ , and she feels a little rush of gratitude.

“Rachel, Rachie.”

He doesn’t correct her, just waits.

“She didn’t—she didn’t sleep so good, so I… told her stories. I told her stories.”

“You told the best stories,” he says quietly. “Even when we were little—you always had a good imagination. We’d try to outdo each other, sometimes, but you always had a way with words.”

“Not like now.”

There’s a long pause.

“You don’t have to be how you were,” Steve says finally. “It doesn’t—it doesn’t make you better, or worse.”

“What if I want to?”

He sighs, and reaches out to take her hand, lacing their fingers in the dark. “I don’t know, Beck. I wish… I wish I knew how to make everything better for you. I wish I could.”

Silence settles over them. There isn’t much else to say.

She lies still, and focuses on the warmth of Steve’s hand in hers, on the bars of light and shadow on the ceiling, on the rhythmic sound of his breathing next to her.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

She’s pushing her luck, she knows, and taking advantage of Steve’s good nature, but she’s too tired to care. “Will you—hold me?”

“Come here,” is his answer, and she scoots backward, until her back meets his chest, his broad arm wrapping around her waist, his hand against her stomach. He fits his other arm beneath her somehow, and she feels surrounded by him, held and loved and safe.

Steve presses his lips to the back of her neck, then the top of her head, before letting his head drop to the pillow. “Okay?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and if there are tears pooling in her eyes, no one need know it but her.

“Good.” His arm tightens around her, just for a moment, then relaxes. “Good night, Beck.”

“Good night.”

His arm is a heavy, warm weight, and his heartbeat is steady and slow in her ears. Sleep falls on her like an avalanche, burying her between one breath and the next.

For once, she doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Beck runs until she pukes; flashback to HYDRA forcing Beck to run to the limits of her endurance.  
> Title from "Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight" by James Taylor.  
> Sorry about all the puking in this fic-- I didn't originally intend for that to be such a major theme, but... oh well. Here we are.


	9. I Wanna Wake Up Where You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: hopefully this is pretty mild, but Steve mentions recovering from top surgery.

_I wanna wake up where you are_  
I won't say anything at all  
[…]

 _And I'll do anythin' you ever dreamed to be complete_  
Little pieces of the nothin' that fall  
Oh, May  
Put your arms around me  
What you feel is what you are  
And what you are is beautiful

_\--“Slide”, the Goo Goo Dolls_

 

It’s been a long time since Steve woke up to someone else in his bed. On the whole, he hasn’t been much for dating since he returned from Afghanistan, and on the rare occasion that he does hook up with someone from a bar or club, he always makes a point of going somewhere that isn’t home—either the other person’s place, or a suitably cheap motel. After the first few incidents of early-morning awkwardness, he’d realized it was easiest to sneak out after the other person fell asleep, as rude as that probably is. It makes it easier to get away without being recognized, too—a beard, eye liner, and some temporary hair dye work well enough in low lighting, but it’s not always enough in the light of day.

Waking up like this is far different from a morning-after with a stranger, though. Beck is sleeping peacefully, long lashes curled on pale cheeks, her dark hair streaming across the pillow in a tangled mess. She’s turned toward him in the night, so her face is only a few inches from his, hands curled against her cheek.

He lies still, breathing slow and even, feeling contentment warming him through like hot chocolate on a cold day. To have Beck here, close, within reach; to have her sleeping, trusting him to look after her, feels like the greatest gift he could receive.

He knows the moment she wakes up; she tenses subtly, breath quickening, as she takes stock of her surroundings. It’s the instinctive reaction of someone used to being a prisoner—trying to figure out as much about their situation as possible without giving anything away.

“Hey, Beck,” he says softly, and her eyes open, blue-grey and, he thinks, a little less hollow than they were last night.

“Ти все ще тут[1],” she murmurs, burrowing her face into his chest. She sounds calm, happy even, so the language thing doesn’t concern him too much… yet.

“Is that Russian, babe?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound quite right. “You know I don’t speak that, right?”

She shakes her head, mumbling something else in the same language, and tugs his arm tighter around her.

Steve smiles into her hair. “Okay, we can just cuddle. I got nowhere else to be.”

They stay like that for a while, long enough that Steve is starting to get hungry when Beck finally pulls away from him.

“Oh,” she says blearily, and then focuses on him, a blush rising in her cheeks. “Hi, Steve.”

“Hi.” He regards her with some amusement. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I… I _slept._ ” She rubs her eyes, then sits up, looking around. “What time is it?”

Steve consults the alarm clock on his side of the bed. “A little after nine.”

“Wow, really? So that’s… eight hours?”

“Yup.”

“Hmph.” She flops back onto the mattress, looking more relaxed than he’s seen her since… well, since before she fell, probably. “I guess I needed it.”

“You probably need more, honestly. Maybe take a nap after breakfast?” he suggests.

“Maybe…” Her expression freezes, then shifts into one of horror. “Oh, God. Steve… Steve, I’m so _sorry._ ”

He sits up, worried by her sudden change in mood. “Sorry for what? What’s wrong?”

“Last night, I… oh God, _fuck_.” She rolls over, hiding her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I did that—and you were so nice—and we’re in your _bed_ —I made you sleep with me like a—like a little kid—”

“Beck—”

“I shouldn’t’ve—”

“ _Beck_ ,” he repeats, and she breaks off, looking at him with wide, scared eyes. Steve wishes he could make it so she’d never get that expression again.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “We talked about this, remember? I _want_ to take care of you. It’s not a—a chore, or an imposition, or whatever you’re thinking. I want to help.”

She shakes her head, fingers tightening in the blankets. “I _puked_ on you.”

“Yeah, and how many times have you dealt with me being sick all over the place?”

She blinks, nonplussed. _Oh. Right. She doesn’t remember that._

“Look, I got sick _all the time_ when we were younger, and I can’t even count the number of times you helped me out. You even—jeez, you even helped me with the bandages and drains and everything after I got top surgery, and that was _gross_.”

He’d hoped to maybe get a laugh, or at least a smile from her, but she’s still worrying at the blankets, avoiding his gaze, so he continues, “Look, I know you don’t remember that, but my point is, we’ve been cleaning up each other’s messes for a long time. It doesn’t bother me, so it doesn’t need to bother you. Okay?”

She’s still for a long moment, then says, in a small voice, “You let me sleep with you.”

 _Oh, God_ , he thinks. They’d sort of had this discussion last night, in a very superficial way, but they’d been too tired to really talk about the whys and wherefores of the situation. He’d hoped, foolishly, that they could just skip any more involved explanations. Clearly, that’s not to be.

“Beck,” he says slowly, and stalls out. “Last night,” he tries again, “you know how I said—I hadn’t been sleeping too well, either, without you?”

She frowns, and it occurs to him that she might _not_ remember it.

“I’m not sure,” she says after a moment, and he can see how much she hates the uncertainty. “Everything was kind of—a blur—for a while. I remember—I remembered my sister. _Rachel_. But other than that…”

Steve releases a breath. “Okay. So, um… this is probably super lame and corny, but I… I keep feeling like if I take my eyes off you, you might disappear. And I missed—God, I missed having you close, and I love being able to hold you, and touch you, and just—know you’re here, that you’re safe, with me. And I guess… what I’m trying to say is, I wanted to give you space, if you needed it, but I, uh, I _really_ don’t mind you sleeping in my bed with me.”

She raises her head, looking hopeful and uncertain. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Oh,” she says, and smiles. It’s sweet and tremulous and quite new to him, but he’s entranced all the same.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he thinks. _It doesn’t matter what’s changed, what she remembers or doesn’t._ He wants to learn everything about this new person, her smiles and wants and dreams—and yes, her fears and triggers, too. He wants to make her happy, but he also just— _wants_ her, wants her near, safe, _with him_. He already loves Beck as the other half of his soul, but just now, the giddy warmth in his chest makes him feel as though he’s falling in love all over again.

The phone rings. Steve is tempted to ignore it, but one look at the caller ID and he knows he has to pick up.

Beck makes a disgruntled-cat noise as he sits up to answer the call.

“Hi, Emmy.”

“Steve!” Emma’s voice is disturbingly chipper; it’s the tone she uses when someone’s in trouble, but she’s still deciding how much. “You’re alive! I was starting to wonder.”

Steve winces. He’s missed two Sundays in a row, and today’s going to be the third. “I’m sorry, Em. I had a… a thing.”

“A thing.”

“Uh—yeah, something came up, and it was really important, but I couldn’t use my phone, and I didn’t know beforehand it was gonna happen—”

“Uh huh.” She doesn’t sound impressed. “So was this, like, an Avengers thing, or…?”

He sneaks a look at Beck, who is watching him with narrowed eyes. “It’s… classified.”

She sighs. “You know you’re gonna give me an ulcer one of these days, right?”

“Aren’t you kind of young to get an ulcer?”

“Which is why you should try harder not to give me one!”

“Emmy, I really am sorry,” he says, but can’t help adding, “I did text you.”

“Yeah, you know, you texting me, ‘Not dead, can’t talk now’ doesn’t actually reassure me,” she says.

“I’m sor—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re sorry, but you’ll do it again in a month or two, so I don’t know why we bother.”

Steve hangs his head. Emma _definitely_ inherited her grandma’s guilt-tripping skills.

“So, now we’ve gone over that, are you coming for brunch today? The kids are asking about you.”

He shoots another guilty look at Beck. “No—no, I’m sorry, Emma, but today’s not gonna work out.”

“The Avengers have you working on a Sunday?”

“Well, um… this isn’t… it’s not exactly the Avengers…. Look, Em, it’s complicated, okay? But this thing… this thing that’s come up, it’s very important, and I’m—I might not be, you know, available, for a while, until things sort of… settle down. But I swear it’s worthwhile, Em, you’d approve, I promise.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then she says softly, “Is it dangerous?”

His heart clenches. Emmy pretty much saved him from himself after he came back from the Middle East, letting him sleep on her couch and forcing him to go to therapy. She’s one of the few people who looks at him as a person first, who sees Captain America as merely a job—a dangerous, grueling, and often heart-breaking job. She worries about him, and he wishes there was some way to assuage her fears. Unfortunately, they’re well-founded.

“No,” he tells her. “It’s not dangerous.”

Beck raises her eyebrows pointedly, and waggles her metal fingers.

“Well, not _very_ dangerous,” he amends. “And—I hope to be able to tell you about it. Soon.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says.

“I know you will.”

There’s a pause.

“So, does this mean… are you still coming to Thanksgiving?”

Another stab of guilt. He hasn’t missed a Thanksgiving with the Barneses since he came back to the States. “I… don’t know, Em. I’ll try.”

Another long, awkward pause.

Steve takes a breath. “How are the kids?”

“Oh, good, they’re good,” says Emma, clearly trying to hide her worry. “Javier’s got more teeth coming in, so he’s crying all the time, but we’ve got those freeze-pack teething toys, and those are helping. Becky’s super excited for Halloween, she’s decided she wants to be the Falcon—”

“The Falcon? Really? What, Captain America’s not good enough for her?”

Emma laughs. “She was Captain America last year, Steve, don’t be jealous!”

“I’ll have to tell Sam, he’ll be thrilled.”

“You do that.”

“And how’s Alejandro?”

“Really good, he actually just got the bid to design that new green building for Columbia. You’ll have to get him to tell you about it—I swear I was paying attention, but I can’t remember any of the details right now.”

“That’s awesome, Em.” He glances at Beck, who’s gone tight and still next to him, hunched in on herself as though in pain. “Listen, I better go, but why don’t we do a video call sometime this week? I miss you guys.”

“Sure,” she says, though there’s that hint of worry again—usually their conversations last much longer than this. “I’ll text you our schedule.”

“Awesome. Okay, I’ll talk to you later, Emmy. Love you.”

“I love you, too. And Steve—”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you?”

He softens. “I will. Bye, Em.”

“Bye.”

He hits _End_ , then turns to Beck. “Beck? Are you okay?”

She seems to be trying to make herself as small as possible, a difficult task for a woman who’s nearly six feet tall. “Em… Emma… that’s…”

“Your sister,” he says gently.

“And she—her daughter, did she…?”

“Yeah, she named her daughter after you.”

She shakes her head once, sharply, as though trying to dislodge a fly. “She—she shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not—I’m not—” Her hands clench and unclench in agitation. “She doesn’t know—she thinks I was—a good person, and now… I’m a _murderer_ , and I don’t even remember—Steve, I don’t even remember her—”

“Sweetheart, that’s not your fault,” Steve says, wrapping his arm around her in an attempt to soothe her. “You didn’t ask for this. Any of it.”

She closes her eyes, shuddering, and smushes her face against his sternum. “I’m a basket-case, I can’t remember them, I can’t remember—all I know is killing, how the _fuck_ can someone name a kid after someone like me?”

“She loved you, Beck,” he says softly. “She still would, if you gave her a chance.”

“No, I can’t—she, they can’t know, Steve, they can’t—I can’t let them see, they can’t know what I’ve—what I’ve turned into, what they made me—”

“They wouldn’t blame you, Beck, any more than I do. And they’d be so, so happy to know you’re alive. They’d be over the moon.”

“No! No, please, I—I can’t…” She’s pressing herself against him, her fear evident in the rigidity of her body, in the way she clutches his arm, hard enough to bruise.

“Okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m not gonna do anything without your permission. But we’ll have to tell them some time, when you’re ready. We can’t keep you a secret forever.”

She shakes her head again. “Please.”

“Okay. Okay, Beck. You’re alright. You’re okay.” He rubs her back, up and down, up and down, shoves all the things he wants to do to HYDRA to the back of his mind so she won’t think he’s angry at her. “You’re alright. It’s gonna be okay.”

 

They’re just finishing breakfast when Natasha shows up.

“Hey, Cap,” she says, snagging a piece of bacon off his plate. “Tony’s calling a meeting.”

“When?”

“Now.”

He frowns, darting a glance at Beck, who is busy transferring the last of her kale-and-blueberry smoothie from the blender into a cup. After the angst of last night and this morning, the thought of leaving her—even briefly—sends a spike of panic through his gut. “Is it important?”

“Would I be here if it wasn’t?”

“Touche.” He sighs, shoveling the last bite of egg into his mouth before standing up. “Okay, I’ll go get dressed. Beck?”

“What?”

“Will you be alright here if I go to this meeting?”

Her face goes blank, something he’s realizing is her way of hiding distress. “Of course.”

Not altogether reassured, he opens his mouth to question her, but Natasha elbows him in the ribs.

“Go put clothes on, Rogers, we need to go.”

“Okay, fine,” he grumbles. “I’m going, jeez.”

Sam is there when he returns, looking just as rough around the edges as Steve feels.

“Hey, man. Avengers business, huh?”

“Yeah. You coming?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not dealing with Stark on an empty stomach.”

“You haven’t eaten yet?” Sam is usually a ridiculously early riser by non-superhuman standards. “It’s past ten!”

“I didn’t sleep too well.” His voice is flat, and there’s tension visible in the hunch of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. “Woke up late.”

“Nightmares?” Steve says sympathetically.

He nods, rubbing his eyes. “It’s been awhile since I had one… I guess I got out of practice.”

“Want a hug?”

There’s a pause, while Sam looks at him, assessing; then his shoulders drop, and he makes a little “come here” gesture with his hands. “Please.”

Steve has been told he gives good hugs. He holds Sam as tightly as he can without crushing him, rubbing his back with one hand. It takes nearly a minute, but finally he feels Sam start to relax, sagging a little in the circle of Steve’s arms.

Steve pulls away, keeping his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, voice a little rough. “Thanks.”

“Any time.”

“As much as I hate to break up this little platonic cuddle-fest, we really do have to go,” Natasha says. “Tony’s got a bee in his bonnet, he’s even called Hill in.”

“Shit, that _is_ serious.” Steve pats Sam on the back, then turns to find Beck, who is still hovering on the other side of the kitchen island as though unsure what she’s supposed to be doing. “Okay, okay. Sam, help yourself to anything in the fridge, you know where everything is. Beck… are you—is this okay?”

She nods, though she still seems on edge. “Yes. I’m fine.”

He crosses the kitchen in two strides, and pulls her into a hug, kissing her hair before parting. “I won’t be gone long.”

“It’s okay, Steve. You’re only going upstairs.”

“I know, I just…”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?” he means it for a joke, but his voice betrays him, too high and anxious by far.

Her expression softens, and she brushes his cheek with a metal fingertip. “Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know.”

He nods, squeezes her hand, and resolutely follows Natasha out the door.

 

[1] Ukrainian: You’re still here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter is from "Slide" by the Goo Goo Dolls.  
> Yes, there is a Shrek reference in this chapter. They're millennials, what did you expect?  
> Ukrainian is from Google translate, sorry for any mistakes.


	10. New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve had thought he knew most of SHIELD's secrets by now-- the important ones, anyway. Turns out, he was wrong. And the past has a funny way of cropping up to haunt him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short. I'm almost done with what would have been the second half of this chapter, but I didn't want to wait. So... have a chapter! And hopefully the next bit will be done soon!  
> No content warnings for this one.

_The change, it had to come_  
_We knew it all along_  
_We were liberated from the fold, that's all_  
_And the world looks just the same_  
_And history ain't changed_  
_'Cause the banners, they are flown in the last war._  
  
_I'll tip my hat to the new constitution_  
_Take a bow for the new revolution_  
_Smile and grin at the change all around_  
_Pick up my guitar and play_  
_Just like yesterday_  
_Then I'll get on my knees and pray_  
_We don't get fooled again._

\--“Won’t Get Fooled Again”, The Who

When Steve enters the room, Clint, Maria, and Bruce are already there, seated around the giant conference table with coffees and pastries in hand. Bruce is reading something on his tablet with a concerned frown, while Maria somehow gives off the impression of being calm, alert, competent, and extremely busy, without actually doing anything. Clint has acquired scraped knuckles and a Hello-Kitty band-aid across his nose since Steve last saw him, and is hunched over his coffee with the bleary expression of someone who hasn’t woken up yet.

“Hi, guys,” says Steve, grabbing a cup of tea and a doughnut for himself before sitting down. “What’s up?”

“Tony found something,” Bruce says absently, swiping something on the screen of his tablet. “He’ll be back in a minute, he just went to get—oh, there he is.”

“Helloooooo, everybody!” Tony sings, swaggering in with a giant cup of coffee in one hand and some kind of device in the other. “Did you miss me?”

“Every minute,” says Natasha in a voice slightly drier than the Sahara. “We were lost without you.”

He points at her. “You say that like you’re joking, but we all know how much you love me.”

“Tony, is there a point to this?” Steve asks in as polite a tone as he can manage. “You said it was urgent.”

“Yeah, yeah, Captain Tight-Ass,” says Tony, waving a hand and causing several projections to appear above the table. “I’m getting there, jeez.” He takes a big gulp of coffee, winces, and sets the cup down on the table. “Okay, that was hotter than I expected. That’s what she said. Ha. Anyway, we’re all here because of this.”

He points to one of the screens, which shows a column of dates and locations; it looks like some kind of shipping manifest. “So JARVIS pulled this from the SHIELD data dump awhile back, but we didn’t know what it was—the descriptions are super vague, which of course set off alarm bells, etc. Anyway. I had Jarv poke around, see if he could find anything else—and he came up with this.”

Another projection lights up, this one a diagram of what looks like a shipping container.

“I won’t go into the details—although they’re fascinating—but basically, Jarv investigated the destinations on the manifests, then cross-referenced the purposes of the facilities in those locations. Turns out most of them were high-security warehouses. Also turns out, those facilities experienced heavy usage starting in 2012, then tapering off up until now. We did some scans for unusual elements, and, what do you know—”

The diagram is replaced with a bunch of grainy pictures in various shades of red and green, along with some numbers and charts.

“Turns out we’ve got Chitauri tech being stored all over the U.S.”

Steve sits up abruptly. “I thought we gave all of that back to the Asgardians.”

“It was recovered in stages,” says Maria. “We had to store it until they could pick it up.”

“Well, looks like some of it took a little walk,” Tony says. “As far as we can tell, it was moved from those facilities some time last year. We’ve pinged this tech in Turkmenistan, South Sudan, and Greece, plus Argentina, Columbia, and the Yukon Territory.”

He pulls up a map with red dots in various locations. “The biggest cache appears to be in Sokovia. Apparently HYDRA helped themselves.”

“When was it moved?” asks Natasha.

“Most of it disappeared some time between August and November of 2013.”

Steve has to make an effort to keep his voice calm. “All alien tech was supposed to be removed from Earth by July of 2013. SHIELD shouldn’t have even had that stuff in their possession at that time.” He looks at Maria. “What was SHIELD doing with Chitauri technology?”

She meets his eyes steadily. “We held back a few pieces for research purposes.”

“I wouldn’t call thirty tons of material ‘a few pieces’,” says Tony.

Steve explodes. “ _Thirty tons?_ What the hell were you thinking?”

“We had no way of knowing whether something like that could repeat itself. Nick wanted to make sure we were prepared to defend ourselves against alien tech.”

“That’s very nice, but we have a _treaty with the Asgardians_ ,” Steve growls. “I know, because I’m the one who fucking signed it! If SHIELD wanted to keep the tech, they should have pushed for it in the negotiations! God, is there _anything_ you people didn’t lie about?”

Maria flinches minutely, but her voice remains calm. “There’s no need to shoot the messenger, Captain.”

“No, but you could have damn well mentioned this at _any point_ in the last six months when we talked about what HYDRA might be up to—like, ‘Oh, by the way, we have alien technology stored all over the fucking country, if HYDRA gets their hands on it it could be a problem’—you don’t think that _might_ have been relevant?”

“Nick didn’t want—” she starts, then breaks off.

“Nick didn’t want anyone to know,” Natasha completes icily. “Of course not.”

“Yeah, why give anyone information if you can keep a secret, instead?” says Clint, apparently awake enough for sarcasm.

“And now HYDRA’s got a cache in Sokovia,” Steve says.

“Among other places.”

“Yeah, Tony, thanks for the reminder.”

“No problem.”

There’s a long, awkward silence.

Maria closes her eyes, takes a breath, and says, “So… in the interest of transparency… those facilities didn’t just store Chitauri tech.”

The meeting doesn’t get any better from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Won't Get Fooled Again", by The Who.  
> You might notice that it is now past 10 am, and Clint is half asleep. This is because Clint is a mess.  
> Regarding Chitauri tech/what was done with it-- In Spiderman: Homecoming, Stark Industries acquires the contract to clean up after the Chitauri incident, and is apparently storing the tech indefinitely. I don't actually remember much about the original Avengers movie, but I feel like the Asgardians wouldn't be too keen on Earth keeping all that advanced tech, especially considering how reckless they were with the Tesseract. So it makes sense to me that Earth/SHIELD would make an agreement with the Asgardians about the proper disposal of the Chitauri tech. And of course, Fury being Fury would want an ace up his sleeve-- probably encouraged by Pierce, who would certainly have wanted to get his grimy mitts on alien tech for his own purposes. Anyway, that's my headcanon, and that's where this is going. Hope that all makes sense!  
> PS. I'm quite bad at visualizing weight/volume, but the Chitauri whale things were quite big, so thirty tons seemed a reasonable amount to me. That's enough for several shipping containers, right? Right!  
> As always, comments are much appreciated!


	11. Problem-solving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam introduces Beck to Pinterest. Steve recaps the Avengers' meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update! I finally finished my Master's degree, so now I have a bit more time for fic.   
> CW: mention of violence.

_Times are hard_   
_You're afraid to pay the fee_   
_So you find yourself somebody_   
_Who can do the job for free_   
_...._

_I'm a fool to do your dirty work_   
_Oh yeah_   
_I don't want to do your dirty work_   
_No more_

_\--_ "Dirty Work", Steely Dan

Beck sits at the kitchen table, watching Wilson add eggs and vegetables to a frying pan, and trying not to look like she’s watching him.

He moves easily around the kitchen, clearly knowing where everything is, quiet enough in his socked feet that she can’t hear his footsteps over the rattle of the frying pan and the hiss of the coffeemaker. Eventually, he flips the egg-stuff onto a plate, adds toast and ketchup, and heads to the table with the coffee pot in his free hand.

“Want some?”

She shakes her head. Pepper’s nutritionist recommended staying away from acidic foods, and coffee and black tea were on the list. For now, that means Beck is limiting herself to herbal tea, and a half-cup of coffee to keep Steve company in the mornings.

“Okay,” he says, and eats his breakfast without saying anything more.

The Winter Soldier does not get restless, or anxious, but Beck feels herself becoming both. Wilson is still an unknown entity, and his silence makes her nervous. He could be thinking anything, judging her, and she has no way of knowing.

He clears his plate, peers into his mug, and pours another cupful of coffee. For the first time, he looks directly at her, raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry. Apparently her observation of him wasn’t as subtle as she hoped.

“Are you babysitting me?” she asks.

Wilson laughs. “Sort of. I figured you might want company. And, uh.” He hesitates, rubbing his thumb over the handle of his coffee mug. “I didn’t get enough sleep to deal with Avengers stuff right now. But I… don’t really feel like being by myself, either, you know?”

Beck nods. She knows.

“I can clear out, if you want.”

She thinks of the absolute stillness of the apartment when no one is here, the way the white walls close in like a cage. She thinks about the redness of Wilson’s eyes, and the stiff way he’s holding himself, like there’s an injury he’s trying to ignore. She thinks of the past few sleepless nights, of the relief when Steve invited her to his bed, the security of being held in his arms. Wilson doesn’t have that kind of comfort—not here, anyway.

“No,” she says. “You can stay.”

Wilson smiles, though he still looks tired, fragile. “Thanks.”

There’s another long, pregnant pause.

“I had an idea,” he says at last.

Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “What?”

“It’s totally up to you, of course,” he says, “but… I thought… it was really nice, the way you got Steve to actually start decorating this place. It’s about time he stopped living out of a suitcase.”

“He’s been living out of…?”

“Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s close.” Wilson waves the hand that isn’t clinging to his coffee mug. “I mean, you’ve seen. Everything’s in boxes, except the books and clothes. And that’s just ‘cause Tony had them moved here after you trashed his old place.”

He says it like a fact, without any judgement in his voice. She still winces.

“Sorry.”

“Not my problem,” he says, but there’s a warmth to his voice that makes it kind, rather than dismissive. “Anyway. My point is, if you and Steve are gonna be living here, it might be nice to make it look like you’re, you know, actually _living_ here.”

Beck nods. She _wants_ that, she realizes, with the slight shock that always accompanies the feeling. She wants this place to be a home, but more than that, she wants to—to leave a mark here, to have a tangible presence in Steve’s house, in his life. She’s so tired of being a ghost.

“So what I thought was, maybe we could look up some interior decorating stuff—doesn’t have to be anything big, maybe some paint colors, or curtains, or whatever—you can pick out what you like, and when Steve gets back, you can see what he thinks. Maybe the two of you can get this place looking a little less, you know… depressing.”

“I don’t really know anything about… decorating,” she says cautiously.

“So we’ll look up some pictures first. No pressure. I just—thought it might be something you’d enjoy.”

She rubs her thumb against the tabletop, unable to feel the grain beneath the thick varnish. The onion print hangs over the sink, above the window. The walls are white and frigid, the tiled floor cold enough for her to feel through her socks. She is so tired of cold, tired of having nothing to call her own.

_I can have this_ , she tells herself. _Even if it doesn’t last, I can have this now._

Soon, Steve will realize she’s not worth his time and attention, that she can never be the person he needs. Soon, she’ll be on her own again, with only the memory of this place to keep her warm. But until then, she’ll hold onto this idea of home as tightly as she can.

“Yes,” she says, her voice a little hoarser than the situation calls for. “I would… like that.”

“Great,” says Wilson. “Just you wait, I’mma introduce you to Pinterest.”

They end up on the couch with Wilson’s laptop and a careful twelve inches of space between them. He explains Pinterest (“It’s like a bulletin board where you can put stuff you like, but digital”), and makes her a page, then does a few image searches to narrow down the kind of thing she’s interested in.

She quickly realizes that anything “modern” or “minimalist” is not for her—it’s all black and white, chrome and steel, and reminds her far too much of HYDRA facilities and cold, bare cells. Instead, she gravitates toward soft colors and comfortable-looking furniture, plants and sunlight and wooden floors.

“Absolutely not,” says Wilson, when she hovers her cursor over the image of a plaid couch in shades of pink and green.

She stills, looking at him with wide eyes—she hadn’t thought she’d done anything wrong, hadn’t meant to anger him, but—”

“No way,” he continues. “Listen, I know you’ve had a hard time and all, but I’m putting my foot down. Friends don’t let friends decorate with plaid furniture.”

_Friends don’t let friends…_ She blinks, realizing, first, that he’s not angry, that he’s—not _joking_ , exactly, but— _playing_ , maybe. And second…

“Friends?”

His mouth curls upward. “That’s what I said.”

“I…” She swallows, curls her fingers inside the front pocket of her hoodie. “Is that… are we..?”

“Sure,” he says easily. “If you want to be.”

“But… I thought… you’re Steve’s friend?”

“I am,” says Sam. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be yours, too, if you want.”

It’s a few seconds before she can figure out an answer to that. It’s so sudden, so unexpected, so _strange_ — _I wrecked his car, I tried to kill him_ —that she doesn’t know quite how to react. A large part of her is terrified by the idea; _friends_ are not something she can have, not something she deserves, with what she’s done, what she _is_ , and she knows that reckoning will come, sooner or later. Having a friend means having one more thing to lose.

And yet… and yet. Wilson has only been kind since she met him, has taken pains to get to know her, as if she’s a real person, as if she is no different from Steve or Pepper or Romanoff. She wants him to like her, not just because of his influence with Steve, but because he’s the kind of person whose good opinion is worth having. And… she thinks, she thinks she might like him, too.

“I don’t know how to be a friend,” she mumbles, not looking at him.

“That’s okay. We can figure it out as we go along.”

She risks a glance in his direction, and finds that he’s smiling at her, eyes warm.

“I know this is all new for you,” he says, “But Steve’s not the only one rooting for you, you know? You’ve got me, and Pepper, Natasha, even Tony… we’re in your corner, Beck, and we’re not going anywhere.”

She can feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, and swipes at them with the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“You’re welcome.” He holds out a hand. “So, friends?”

She nods, and tentatively takes the offered hand, surprised at the warmth with which he clasps hers. “Friends.”

“Awesome. Now, delete that plaid monstrosity, and we can go back to interior design like the macho military people we are.”

She can’t help grinning at that, can’t help relaxing as she clicks on a new page. “Okay, but only because we’re friends.”

“Damn right. Okay, look at this chair, though, why did _anyone_ think that color’s a good idea?”

 

Two hours later, Beck’s Pinterest page is full of pictures of squashy furniture and floral prints, color swatches of green and lavender, peach and gold, and notes on things like feng shui and “conversational groupings”. Beck isn’t sure that she cares much about either, but she likes the idea of a design strategy based on something other than sight lines and defensibility. Not, of course, that any room she rearranges isn’t going to have both. She’s not _stupid._

“Steve’s gonna flip for these,” says Sam, scrolling through what they’ve collected. “Maybe this will finally get him out of his ‘depressed hermit’ design phase.”

The words strike her, adding to the other little details that have been piling up in the back of her mind. “Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“Depressed.” She’s not sure she knows exactly what that entails, just that it’s… bad.

“Steve?” Sam chews his lip, clearly deciding what to say. “Yeah, I’d say so. Not that he’d admit it, of course.”

“Oh.” She thinks this over. “I don’t… I didn’t think he was… sad?”

“Depression isn’t just feeling sad,” says Sam. “It can be feeling—numb, or unmotivated, or tired, or anxious, or angry. And Steve, he’s really good at putting up a front. God knows I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but… well, you know how stubborn he is.”

Beck has spent most of her life—that she can remember—feeling numb, except when she was scared. She can’t remember feeling angry before that night in Steve’s apartment, can’t remember ever having the emotions that seem to course through her all the time, now. It’s still hard to believe that most people feel all of this stuff _all the time_ , and that they just—somehow _deal_ with it, without crying or withdrawing or needing someone to hold them close and comfort them. Numbness was a lot easier.

“Do you think he feels… numb?”

Sam shakes his head. “That’s something only Steve can answer.” He sighs. “I don’t know if I should have told you this. But—I’d rather you know, so you can understand what’s going on, and deal with it, instead of getting blindsided later.”

Beck draws her knees to her chest, feeling a lump come into her throat. “I don’t know if I can help him,” she says softly. “I don’t—I’m broken. How can I fix someone else?”

“You don’t have to fix anyone, Beck. That’s not your job. Just—be there for him, just like he is for you. It might not be enough, but it’s all you can do.”

She thinks about that, resting her chin on her knees, staring blindly at the pale green curtains on the computer screen. “When I’m—upset—he hugs me,” she tells Sam at last, feeling that she’s imparting a huge secret. “And he reads to me. Do you think—is that—could I do that for him?”

Sam smiles at her, pleased and (she thinks) a little surprised. “Yeah, Beck. I think that’s a great idea.”

They’re interrupted by Steve himself, opening the door with considerably more force than necessary. Beck gets up from the couch, excited to show him the results of their foray into interior design, but the greeting dies on her lips when she catches sight of his face.

Steve looks _furious_.

“The _fuck_ is wrong with people,” he growls, kicking the door shut. “Of all the goddamned _stupid_ things—”

His eyes are blazing, his face set in a stony, implacable sort of anger that’s far more frightening than any amount of bluster. She backs away instinctively, dropping into a fighting stance; there’s a knife in her waistband, but she doesn’t draw it.

When she was the Asset, her handlers often took out their anger on her, knowing she wouldn’t—couldn’t—fight back. She doesn’t think Steve would hit her without good reason, but she also knows how unpredictable people can be when they’re angry. If he hits her now, she doesn’t know what she’ll do—whether she’ll run, whether she’ll stand there and take it. She knows she won’t fight back.

“ _Steve_ ”, says Sam’s voice, cutting through her panicked thoughts, and suddenly, Steve’s entire posture changes.

He takes a step back, toward the door, hands up, eyes wide and startled. “Oh my God,” he says, in a completely different voice. “Oh God, Beck, I’m sorry, I didn’t think—it’s okay, baby, I’m not gonna do anything, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“You’re angry,” she says, quiet, and he winces.

“Yeah, I am, but not at you, Beck. Never at you.” His body is still taut with anger, but his eyes have gone soft and limpid. He holds out a hand to her. “Baby, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have burst in like that. But I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

In her mind’s eye, the blonde handler— _Pierce, his name was Pierce_ —beckons to her, a wordless command. _Come here._

_She obeys, and stands in front of him, waiting._

_The slap takes her by surprise, hard enough to snap her head back, hard enough to leave a bruise. She doesn’t make a sound, though her eyes sting with the impact._

_“Do you want to explain to me how a valuable witness escaped? You have an excuse?”_

_She had not been tasked with setting up a perimeter; she had only been told to eliminate the target. She’d done her job; the Strike Team had not done theirs. She knows it’s useless to say so._

_“No, sir.”_

_He hits her again, splitting her lip. “I don’t have time for incompetence.”_

She finds that she’s shaking, hugging herself with both arms, her own fingers digging bruises into her skin.

“Beck,” says Steve, and his voice is perfectly calm and controlled, now, all his anger locked away inside. ( _Pierce had never seemed angry, either, until he lashed out_ ). “Can I touch you?”

She nods, resisting the urge to flinch when he places his hand on her arm. But then he’s hugging her, and her panic melts away, everything going soft and warm as he rubs her back, as he cradles her head, as his voice murmurs reassurance in her ear.

They sit down on the couch, and she pulls away slightly, embarrassed at being coddled. “I’m okay, Steve. You don’t need to—it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He lets her pull away, but keeps a hand on her thigh, gently brushing his thumb back and forth. “I, uh, can’t guarantee I can be calm about this, so if it bothers you—”

“Understood.”

He nods, but doesn’t seem to know where to start.

“I take it the meeting didn’t go well,” Sam prompts, and Steve lets loose an explosive sigh, running his free hand through his hair.

“No. No it didn’t.”

“You wanna tell us what happened?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you what happened.” His voice is a growl, laden with barely-controlled fury, but his hand is still gentle on Beck’s leg. “SHIELD are a bunch of fucking—fucking _assholes_ , is what happened.”

 

 

Sam makes an enquiring noise, and Steve draws a shaky breath, trying his best to tamp down the fury still boiling in his veins. He can’t afford to scare Beck again, but it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to scream and yell.

“So, you remember when the Chitauri attacked New York?”

“It’s not the kind of thing you forget,” says Sam drily.

“You remember the Asgardian treaty?”

“Yeah, but—I was still overseas then, I didn’t get all the details.”

“Okay, so basically, we made an agreement with them to hand over all alien artifacts from the cleanup, and in return, they’d help with the cleanup, and pretty much look out for us in case of another alien attack. That was when Thor became a permanent member of the Avengers, Loki went to prison on Asgard, etc.”

“Okay.”

“So Tony was trolling around in the SHIELD files—”

“As you do.”

“And he found out that a bunch of alien tech was still floating around here—”

“Here, as in...”

“Earth, yeah.”

Sam tilts his head, eyebrows raised. “I take it that’s not what was supposed to happen?”

“It is so, _so_ not what was supposed to happen.” Steve jumps to his feet, unable to sit still any longer, and starts pacing. “SHIELD held back a bunch of tech, _in violation of the treaty_ , and then hid it all over the place. Except, guess who got ahold of it?”

“HYDRA?”

“FUCKING HYDRA!” he shouts, waving his hands in the air. “So now we’ve got to fuckin’—track it down, because SHIELD _lied_ , like they _always do_ —they lied to _me,_ and they’re still at it—”

“Steve, woah, calm down,” says Sam. “You’re taking this personally—”

“THAT’S BECAUSE IT’S PERSONAL!” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Beck flinch, and makes an effort to control himself, taking several deep breaths before continuing. “When SHIELD made that treaty, they needed a figurehead, someone the Asgardians would trust, to be the—the envoy, or whatever.”

“Oh, God,” Sam says, realization dawning. “They asked you?”

“They asked me,” Steve confirms. “And like a fucking _moron_ ¸ I agreed.”

“Nobody can blame you, Steve, not if you didn’t know—”

“I was the _principal signatory_ on that thing, Sam! Along with Nick Fury and fucking _Pierce_ , and you know what they have in common?”

“They’re both dead?”

“THEY’RE BOTH FUCKING DEAD!” He runs both hands through his hair, fingers catching on the gel he’d used that morning. “Officially, anyway. And Nick, that _bastard_ , went behind my back and broke the treaty, _knowing_ I never would’ve agreed if I knew, and now _I’m_ the one who has to deal with the fallout—”

“Wait, are you saying he planned this? I mean, him dying—officially—and, and Pierce, and everything?”

“I’m not saying he knew how it would go, but you don’t know him like I do. He had contingency plans for _everything_. And now—God, Sam, there’s no reason for them to believe I acted in good faith.”

Sam purses his lips. “You think they set you up to be their fall guy.”

Steve throws himself into an armchair, anger abruptly giving way to defeat. “What else am I supposed to think? They knew what they were doing. They never intended to honor the treaty in the first place.” He rubs his face, throat tight with betrayal. “God, what a fucking _mess_.”

There’s a long silence, broken by JARVIS’s woodland noise.

“Sirs, Beck, Agent Romanoff is requesting admittance.”

Steve makes a halfhearted gesture of invitation, and it falls to Sam to say, “Let her in, Jarv.”

“Very good, sir.”

Natasha saunters in a moment later, pausing at the end of the couch to exchange knowing looks with Sam. “He still sulking?”

“I’m not _sulking_!” Steve protests.

“Yup. To be fair, I’d probably be pissed, too,” says Sam.

“Yeah, it must be really awful to have a shady organization use your name for their nefarious purposes without your consent,” says Beck, and immediately looks shocked, as though she can’t believe she just said that.

It’s the surprise on her face that does it more than anything else; Steve finds himself laughing helplessly, sliding down in his chair with the force of it. “Oh my God, Beck, you’re—you’re incredible, you know that?”

Beck ducks her head, blushing.

Sam has that “I did not sign up for this/why do I spend time with these assholes” expression on his face. “Okay,” he says after a minute. “So, let’s just recap for a sec—”

“Re-CAP”, Natasha puts in.

Steve groans. “Really, Nat?”

She shrugs. “Seemed appropriate.”

“ANYWAY,” Sam continues, “Let me just make sure I got the picture here. SHIELD violated the treaty with Asgard, and you, Steve, are probably gonna be held responsible. HYDRA has a bunch of Chitauri tech, which they stole from SHIELD, and I’m assuming we’re gonna have to go get it, is that right?”

“Oh,” says Natasha. “He hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

“What’s the good part?” Sam asks warily.

Before she can answer, JARVIS’s woodland noise sounds again. When the speaker comes on, though, it’s not the AI’s voice, but Tony’s.

“Hey Capricorn, Barton and I are all on our lonesome, here. Mind if we drop by?”

“Hang on,” says Steve. “JARVIS, please mute our end for a sec.”

“You are muted, sir.”

He turns to Beck. “Are you okay with them coming here?”

“I—don’t know. Who’s Barton?”

“Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye,” says JARVIS. “Agent Barton is one of the Avengers.”

“He’s a good guy,” Steve says. “I trust him.”

“He was with us in DC,” adds Sam. “Saved all our asses.”

“But if you don’t want him here, I’ll tell ‘em we’re not up for more company right now,” Steve adds quickly. “It’s your choice.

She grimaces, but after a moment, nods. “Okay. You can tell him—it’s okay.”

He smiles, knowing how scary this must be for her, how brave she’s being, and crosses the room to sit next to her again. “Thanks, Beck.”

“Get a room,” says Natasha, rolling her eyes, and Steve gives her a push, dislodging her from her perch on the arm of the couch.

“It’s my house,” he says. “JARVIS, please tell them it’s fine for them to come down.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door bursts open, and Tony strides in. “Hey, kids, I hope you didn’t start anything without me!”

“Jesus, Tony, were you waiting in the hall?”

“And waiting very _patiently_ , I might add,” he says, unabashed. “Hey Hal, meet Clint Barton, our resident archer.”

“ _Tony_ ,” says Steve, in what the others refer to as his mom-voice. “Behave yourself. Beck, this is Clint, otherwise known as Hawkeye. Clint, Beck. My girlfriend.” He casts a sideways glance at Beck, to make sure she’s okay with it—she’d said it first, but she might have changed her mind—and is relieved when she just nods, obviously more concerned with the prospect of meeting a stranger than the complexities of their relationship.

“Oh my God,” says Clint. “Sorry, it’s just—you gotta realize—I’m a huge fan. It’s so cool to finally meet you.”

“What?”

“Your sniper record,” he says, eyes huge. “You’ve got, like, the world record for accuracy over a distance—5,300 yards!—I mean, that’s _insane_ , man.”

Beck looks somewhere between pleased and bewildered. “But—that was for HYDRA.”

“Yeah, no shit, but still...” Clint waves a hand, looking dazed, and backs into the armchair, falling over the arm to land sideways in the seat. “You got _skill_ , man. I mean, I’m no slouch, I can do like a two-mile shot on a good day, but _Jesus._ ” He wriggles a little, so his legs are slung comfortably over the arm of the chair. “You gotta come to the range with me some time. I mean it, I wanna see it with my own eyes.”

“Maybe,” she says, but Steve can feel her relaxing, and see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“So,” says Tony, having colonized the other armchair. “Did you tell him about Loki’s scepter yet?”

“Loki’s _what_?” asks Sam.

“Scepter.” Natasha flops onto Clint’s stomach, eliciting an _oof_ sound from him. “It’s got some kind of crazy power. He used it to control people’s minds, during the Battle of New York. Well, and before that, obviously.”

Beck shudders.

Sam’s eyes flick sideways, towards her, before returning to Natasha. “That sounds... not good.”

“It’s not.” All the joviality has disappeared from Clint’s voice; now he sounds cold, flat. “It’s really, really not.”

Natasha strokes his hair.

“It was supposed to go back to Asgard,” says Steve, angry again at the _idiocy_ , the _callousness_ of it. “But SHIELD somehow grabbed it—”

“So HYDRA has that too, now?”

“Yup,” Tony says blithely. “Luckily, we all know how responsible HYDRA is with their toys, so—”

“So when are we retrieving it?” asks Sam. He looks around at them. “We are going after it, right?”

“Ugh,” says Steve.

“It’s complicated,” says Natasha.

“It’s _stupid_ ,” says Clint.

“Okay...?”

Tony heaves a sigh, looking put-upon. “We can’t do anything until Thor comes back from Asgard. This whole thing with SHIELD—it’s a huge betrayal of trust. We can’t afford another fuck-up, we need to be transparent as possible, so that means—”

“Waiting for Thor,” Sam finishes. “You know, Tony, that’s awfully sensible of you—are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. At least I’m not in as much trouble as Captain Spangled, over here.”

“Yeah, rub it in, Tony,” says Steve wearily.

Sam gives him a sympathetic look. “It’s gonna be okay, Steve. Thor knows you, he knows you wouldn’t do something like that—”

“ _And_ that you can’t lie to save your life,” Natasha puts in.

“That, too.”

Steve scowls at them to mask the warmth in his chest at their words, at their support. “Thanks, guys.”

“Anytime, Rogers.”

He sighs, letting his head fall back against the couch. “We need to decide what we’re doing about Maria.”

“Oh, how do you solve a problem like Mariaaaa,” Tony sings, off-key. “Maybe you should marry her, Cap. It worked in the movie.”

“I don’t have seven children,” Steve points out.

“We could get you some.”

“Think I’ll pass, but thanks.”

“So,” says Natasha, “how _do_ we solve a problem like Maria? _Do_ we need to do anything?”

“She withheld important information from us,” Steve reminds her. “Probably on Nick’s orders. We can’t—how do we work with someone whose first loyalty isn’t to us? How do we work with someone we can’t trust?”

Clint struggles into a more upright position, shifting Nat’s weight onto his legs. “Steve, I hate to break it to you, but there are very few people we can _actually_ trust.”

“All our information on HYDRA comes through her,” Steve argues. “If she’s withholding information from us, or—or changing it to fit her own agenda—Fury’s agenda—then no, we can’t trust her, and that means we can’t trust her to coordinate HAT, either.”

“So, what are you suggesting?” Tony demands. He’s pulled a Rubix cube from someplace, and is spinning its color blocks in rapid succession. “You think we should fire her?”

“I don’t _want_ to fire her,” says Steve, frustrated. “She’s a damn good agent, and she’s done good work for us. But I—how many times is SHIELD going to stab us in the backs, before enough is enough? How long are we gonna do this?”

“So she didn’t tell us about the weapons,” says Tony, rapidly reducing the Rubix cube to its component parts. “Is that really—I mean, I don’t like it, I’m not saying I do, but she told us when we asked, is it really that big of a deal? You’re acting like it’s this huge betrayal—”

“It is!” Steve insists. “Tony, they lied to me about that treaty from day one, they set me up to take the fall for them. It’s not her signature on that fucking document, it’s mine. And yeah, the World Council was involved, yeah, there were other signatories, but I was the one who vouched for everyone, I was the face of it, and if you don’t think that wasn’t deliberate—”

“Of course it was,” Natasha interrupts. “Steve’s the most trustworthy person on the planet, and they cashed in on that. They knew Thor would move heaven and—well, Asgard and Midgard, I guess—to make the treaty happen if someone he respected was heading it. And they knew the Asgardians would be more likely to accept it as an honest mistake if Steve told them it was.”

“You think they actually thought I’d lie for them?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, I do.” She meets his eyes. “Fury knows everybody’s secrets, what makes people tick. It’s what he does. I think he thought he had you figured out. I know I did.” She gives him a small, self-mocking smile. “We were both wrong.”

Steve stares at her. “The first thing I did when I got overseas was go AWOL on an unauthorized rescue mission. Why on earth did he think I was the type for blind loyalty?”

Natasha gives Beck a pointed look. “You can’t argue you go to stupid lengths for the people you’re loyal to.”

He wraps his arm around Beck protectively. “Only the ones who’re worth it. And never blindly.”

“Okay, we all know that now,” says Sam. “But let’s bring this back to Maria.” He pauses, but no one interrupts him. He tends to have that effect on people. “Steve, I know you’re hurting, and it _is_ a betrayal—but it’s an old one, and there’s a chance she really just didn’t think of it.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Steve asks skeptically.

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Which brings me to my second point. You’re all exercised about this, and that’s understandable—but you need to _talk_ to her. Not now,” he adds, when Steve opens his mouth. “Wait ‘til you’re calmer. There’s nothing you need to decide immediately. But I know you believe in giving people a chance, Steve. So give her a chance to explain herself—and if you can’t reconcile, then you can make your decision.”

A short silence greets his words.

Then Clint whistles, and begins a slow clap. “Man, I wish I’d had you around when I was younger. Would have saved me from an awful lot of dumb decisions.”

Sam grins. “Hey, I’ve made my share of dumb choices, Barton. Joining up with you assholes, for one.”

“Okay,” says Steve. They all swivel to look at him, and he realizes he’s used the Captain America voice, which is a lot more authoritative than his normal tone. He flushes a little under their gaze. “Okay,” he repeats, a little more softly. “I’ll go talk to her, and then we’ll decide, as a team. Alright?”

Tony salutes ironically, still holding the half-assembled cube. “Whatever you say, Cap’n Crunch.”

“I’m fine with that,” says Clint. His stomach grumbles loudly. “Hey, do you guys wanna get pizza?”

“You can’t live on pizza, Barton,” Natasha tells him, flicking him on the nose. “It’s not good for you.”

“Says the woman who drinks vodka for breakfast.”

“That was _one time._ Anyway, I’m Russian, it doesn’t count.”

“Sure, Natalia. You know, the first step is admitting you’ve got a problem...”

“I’ll give you _problems_ —”

As the team devolves into their usual bickering, Steve turns to look at Beck, who has tucked herself into his side, metal hand buried in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiles at him, and he finds his heart melting a little at the expression. “I’ve got something to show you, later.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Sam and I worked on it.” Her smile turns sly. “Well, _I_ worked on it. Sam just got in the way.”

“What? That is _cold_ ,” says Sam, clutching his chest in mock outrage. “I can’t believe you’d just stab me in the back like that.”

Her eyes widen in false innocence. “I’d _never_ stab you in the back, Sam. I can kill you perfectly well from the front.”

Steve bursts out laughing, anger forgotten for the moment in the face of Beck’s smug expression and Sam’s exaggerated spluttering. He’ll deal with the fallout later. For the moment, he lets himself relax in the presence of his teammates—his _friends_ , some of the few people in the world he can trust. For now, it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current world record for distance shooting is 5,280 yards, or 3 miles.   
> In case you didn't remember, HAT is the Anti-Hydra Taskforce, headed by the Avengers, discussed in "Don't Dream It's Over". The acronym is actually AHT, but nobody calls it that.
> 
> CW: Beck has a flashback to being slapped by Pierce.


	12. Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck and Steve relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short-- I've been hard-put to connect the last chapter to all the stuff that happens later on, so this is the link-y bit. Hopefully it's not TOO saccharine. As always, I really appreciate your comments!

_Lay your weary head to rest_  
_Don't you cry no more_

_Carry on, you will always remember_  
_Carry on, nothing equals the splendor_  
 _Now your life's no longer empty._

_\--"Carry on Wayward Son", Kansas_

 

Later, after everyone’s gone, Steve makes tea and they sit on the balcony, faces turned up to the late autumn sunlight. It’s chilly out, but most of the wind is blocked by the building, the balcony recessed just enough to protect its occupants.

Beck curls into Steve’s warmth, wrapped in a blanket and several layers of sweaters. Steve smiles down at her.

“Cozy?”

She nods.

“You look like a little caterpillar peeking out of its cocoon.”

“I do _not_.”

“It’s the compound eyes that really make the image,” he says solemnly, and she pinches him. “Ow!”

“Serves you right.”

Steve merely chuckles, and pulls her a little more firmly against him. His hand comes to rest lightly on her hair, fingers stroking gently though the strands in a steady, soothing rhythm. Beck can feel herself going loose and boneless, like a cat in sunlight.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says eventually.

She squints up at him, pulled out of the pleasant stupor she’d fallen into. “What?”

“Earlier,” he repeats. “I shouldn’t’ve—I’m sorry I lost my temper. I should’ve waited until I had a better handle on it, instead of coming—roaring in like that. I’m sorry.”

“You apologize an awful lot, you know that?”

He frowns a little, like this wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I—I guess I feel like I’ve got a lot to be sorry for.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her tea, lukewarm now, and reaches across him to put it back on the side table. “I know how that feels.”

He looks vaguely worried, like he thinks he ought to say or do something, but isn’t really sure what that is.

“You think too much,” she tells him.

“Well, one of us has to,” says Steve, teasing, and she hides her smile against his chest.

“The day you think up something useful, it’ll be on CNN.” The words feel familiar in her mouth, the retort to an old argument she can't remember. “Anyway,” she adds after a moment, “It’s a nice day. Can’t we just—sit with it, a little?”

Steve kisses her hair. “Of course, babe. Anything you want.”

She falls asleep like that, wrapped up in him, with the soft afternoon sunshine on her face, and the dull roar of traffic and the cries of the city gulls in her ears.

 

Sam heads back to Washington that evening, after an early dinner.

“You take care of yourselves, you hear me?” he says when he takes his leave. “None of this suffering in silence bullshit.”

“Okay, Sam,” says Steve, and Sam gives him a very unimpressed look.

“I mean it, Steve. It’s not macho, and it sure as hell isn’t cute.”

Steve sighs, long-suffering, but there’s a smile hovering around the edges of his mouth. “I promise I’ll tell you if anything’s up, okay?”

“You better.” He turns to Beck. “And you. You text me anytime, okay? JARVIS has my number, he’ll program it into your phone. If you need to talk, or if you need a break from this lunkhead—I’m here for you, okay?”

She nods, overwhelmed. “Okay.”

“Okay, good.” He hugs them both, then claps Steve on the back for good measure. “Alright guys, I’m out. Try not to blow anything up before I get back.”

“We’ll try,” says Steve dryly. “Safe trip.”

Sam salutes and drives away, leaving the two of them in the empty garage.

When the sound of his engine has died away, Steve nudges Beck. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs. I’ll make milkshakes, and you can show me that project you were working on.”

Together, they slowly make their way inside.

 

Steve actually has to hold back tears when Beck shows him her and Sam’s Pinterest project. It’s so incredibly thoughtful—of both of them—and more than that, it’s solid evidence that Beck really is willing to stay here, with him. That she wants this to be _her_ home, too.

“Beck,” he says huskily. “I don’t know what to say. This is incredible.”

She casts him a worried look from under her lashes. “Are you sure? It’s not—overstepping?”

“Of course not, sweetheart, it’s—this is your home too. I want it to be. Ours.” He lifts his gaze from the laptop screen to the wall of his living room, polished and perfect and soulless. He’d never really cared before, about any of the places he’s lived, but now—for her, he wants it to be more than just a place to eat and sleep. Beck deserves to have a _home_.

“We could start by repainting the walls,” he suggests. “What do you want to do for the living room?”

They settle on a delicate, pale yellow for the living room, cheerful without being overwhelming, and apricot for the kitchen. Steve’s bedroom will be sage green and cream, and Beck’s room lavender. They order the paints, brushes, and other paraphernalia through JARVIS, who promises that the equipment will be dropped off the next day.

If Steve had had any reservations about the idea, the look of genuine excitement on Beck’s face would have assuaged them; as it is, he feels himself getting caught up in her enthusiasm, already dreaming up other changes they can implement to make this place feel like theirs.

“This is gonna look beautiful, Beck,” he says, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I’m so glad you suggested it.”

“It was Sam, really.”

“Oh, well, in that case, never mind.”

She elbows him in the ribs. “You’re such a little punk, Steve.”

“Who are you calling _little?_ I’m taller than you!”

“I notice you didn’t deny the punk part.”

“Nothin’ wrong with being a punk,” he says virtuously. “It’s a totally valid social movement.”

Whatever Beck might say in return is lost in a giant yawn. Steve takes it as a hint.

“You want to go to bed?”

She tenses a little, and looks away from him. “You mean together?”

“Yeah. Like last night. If you want to.”

Beck nods, dark hair falling into her face. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Okay,” he says, levering himself off the couch. “I’m gonna take a shower. You can come in whenever you’re ready.”

 

When he emerges from the shower, he finds Beck already settled in his bed, the covers drawn up to her chin. She’s holding herself too still again, betraying her nervousness, but Steve still feels a rush of warmth from belly to sternum at the sight of her there—in his space, trusting him, _wanting_ to be with him.

“You okay?” he asks, padding over to the side of the bed.

She nods, relaxing minutely.

“Want me to read to you before we go to sleep?”

Another nod.

“Okay, give me a sec.”

He goes back out into the living room, and returns with _The Hobbit_. The moment he gets into bed, Beck scooches closer to him, resting her head against his chest. Steve puts his left arm around her, finds his bookmark, and begins:

“‘Bilbo had escaped the goblins, but he did not know where he was. He had lost hood, cloak, food, pony, his buttons and his friends. He wandered on and on, till the sun began to sink westwards....’”

He can feel her relaxing, melting into him, as he reads, her head a comforting weight above his heart. In this moment, it’s all he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hobbit stuff is from _The Hobbit _by J.R.R. Tolkien._  
>  Title is from "Carry on Wayward Son" by Kansas._


	13. Open up, Open Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy happens.

_Know you got to run_   
_Know you got to hide_   
_Still there is a great life_   
_Engrained deep within your eyes_   
_Open up, open up_   
_Baby let me in_   
_You expect for me to love you_   
_When you hate yourself my friend_

_\--"Everybody I Love You", Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young_

 

The therapist Pepper finds is a six-foot-tall Chinese-American guy with a ponytail and tattoos covering his neck and what’s visible of his arms. His name is Joe.

“Beck, right?” he says, smiling at her. “Nice to meet you.”

She just nods, wary of this new person, of someone whom her brain is screaming is going to analyze her, pick her apart until she’s nothing again, all her essence scattered to the winds.

Joe takes a seat on the couch in Steve’s living room, and leans forward a little.

_Open body language_ , she thinks. _Meant to encourage the subject’s trust._

“So,” he says. “You filled out a form for me with information about what you’re dealing with—”

“Wasn’t me,” she says, and quickly looks away, barely hiding a flinch. _The Asset will not speak unless spoken to._

Joe seems unperturbed by the interruption. “Someone else filled out the form for you?”

“Steve,” she mumbles. “Steve filled it out.”

“How come?”

“I… didn’t want to.”

“But the information on there is accurate? To your knowledge?”

She nods.

“Okay. That’s all right, then.” He leans back, twirling a pen through his fingers. “So, Beck, how about I tell you a little bit about myself, and then we can discuss what you want out of our sessions? Does that sound good to you?”

She nods.

“Alright. Well, I grew up in San Francisco. Joined the military straight out of high school, and ended up on a team specializing in hostage negotiation. I did that for about ten years. One of the things I learned on that job was that getting POWs and hostages back to their loved ones is really only the beginning for them. That kind of experience has a lasting effect on people, and it’s a very specific kind of trauma. So when I retired from the military, I decided I wanted to keep on helping POWs—but this time I wanted to work on helping them recover, readjust to civilian life. I went to college, got degrees in social work and psychology, did my doctorate in psychotherapy, and started working with former POWs. I’ve been doing that for the past eight years, now.” He smiles at her. “Any questions?”

She stares at him for several seconds before her throat comes unstuck. “I’m… I’m not a POW.”

She expects him to argue with her, but he seems completely unfazed. “Why not?”

“I—I fought for them,” she says. “I worked for them.”

“And you chose to do that, of your own free will?”

He’s starting to sound like Steve.

“I—chose to do what they said.”

“So you chose to join this organization, without any coercion, knowing what they would ask you to do?”

She hesitates. “I—don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“They—I don’t remember.”

“Why not?”

“Because—they—” She flaps her hands in frustration. “They removed my memories, I don’t remember anything—almost anything—from before six months ago, I don’t—Steve says I fell. He says they captured me. But… how do I _know_?”

Joe nods, like this is perfectly reasonable, like he deals with amnesiac ex-assassins every day. “So I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to think about it carefully, Beck. If you joined this organization willingly—if you were willing to follow their orders, to do what they said—then why did they take your memories?”

Beck stares at him.

“Memory loss, however it happens, is _always_ associated with brain trauma,” he says. “Whether it’s the loss of brain cells in Alzheimer’s patients, or the result of a physical or psychological injury. In order to remove your memories, they had to damage your brain. To do that to a willing soldier—that makes no sense. There’s no point in hurting someone who already wants to do your bidding. So… why did they remove your memories? Why did they hurt you?”

There are few things she remembers from the past ten years—or any part of her life, really—but she remembers the punishments. The beatings, the drugs, the cell, the Chair. She remembers the constant pain, the fear that only dissipated when she was on whatever sedatives they gave her, or when she fought.

“They hurt me,” she whispers, and it’s… it’s a relief, just to acknowledge that simple fact, after so many years of being forced to hide and ignore the pain. “They hurt me.”

“Why did they hurt you, Beck?”

“Because I—I deserved it.”

Steve would have protested, would have told her, _No, Beck, no, you didn’t deserve that, no one deserves that_. Joe just blinks.

“Why did you deserve it?”

“Be—because—I—disobeyed.”

“Why did you disobey?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I _don’t know._ ”

“Beck. Why did you disobey?”

She struggles for a long moment, then says, reluctantly, “I didn’t want to.”

“To?”

“I didn’t—what they told me—what they wanted—I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to do what they said.”

Joe nods again, encouraging. _Open body language._ “Why didn’t you want to do what they said?”

“I don’t know. Because they hurt me.”

“Is that the only reason?”

She thinks about it. Shakes her head.

“What are the other reasons?”

“I. I didn’t want to—they were _bad_ , they made me kill— _kids_ , they wanted me to kill _Steve_ , and I—I must have known, right? Before—before I forgot, I must have known.”

“So you didn’t want to follow their orders, because you thought what they wanted you to do was wrong,” says Joe, and waits for her nod before continuing. “They stole your memories and used physical and psychological torture to coerce you into following their orders, is that correct?”

“…yeah.”

“Okay,” he says. “So, I want to go back to two things you said just now. First off, you said you deserved what they did to you, because you were disobedient. Right?”

She nods.

“But you also said that you were disobedient because you thought what they did was wrong. Right?”

She nods again.

“So, if you thought they were wrong, then disobeying them was the right thing to do, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So why did you deserve to be hurt, if you were doing the right thing?”

She stares at him for nearly a full minute, mouth open ( _like you’re trying to catch flies_ , she remembers someone telling her, long ago). It’s as though a strong wind has blasted through her mind, sweeping away the dingy walls and rusted debris piled there to lay everything bare. How had she not realized how—how _insane_ , how circular, her reasoning was? Between the self-loathing that HYDRA instilled in her and the guilt that accompanied her re-discovery of morality, she’s somehow convinced herself that she was in the wrong for obeying HYDRA _and_ disobeying them.

“I,” she starts, and raises her eyes to his. “I—you’re _right._ I—I—” _Didn’t deserve it_ , she wants to say, but somehow the words get stuck in her throat. The very _thought_ seems blasphemous; that she deserved her pain is the only truth that’s stayed constant through the past ten years and the upheaval of the past week. Even with this light dawning, like the first tinge of gold along the eastern horizon, she finds that she still cannot really _believe_ it.

“I’d like you to say it with me, Beck,” he says gently. “Can you say, “I didn’t deserve what happened to me?”

“But—”

“But?”

“But what if I—what if I, I was a bad… a bad person, before?”

“Before you were captured?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, looking away. “I—what if I—maybe I didn’t—didn’t—d—deserve punishment for, for disobeying them, but…” She trails off, helpless to articulate what she means.

Luckily, Joe seems to follow her train of thought. “You mean, what if you deserved bad things to happen to you in general, because you were just a bad person?”

She nods, unsure whether she wants to hear what he has to say, whether she wants him to judge her moral worth or not. She doesn’t know which idea is more terrifying, his condemnation or approbation.

“You know,” he says, “People have been debating this for centuries—millennia, even. What makes a person good, or bad? Is it their intent? Their actions? Their words? Their goals? All over the world, people have asked these questions. And nobody really seems to agree.” He looks at her steadily. “I can’t tell you what kind of person you were, or what kind of person you are, Beck. But I will tell you that it is very common for trauma survivors to blame themselves for what happened to them—no matter what kind of person they were, no matter what they’d done in their lives. There’s something in us that always looks for answers to what happened to us, that tries to find meaning in our experiences, and unfortunately, that often ends up becoming self-blame.

“We want to believe we have control over our lives, and so when something terrible happens, we often convince ourselves it was our fault, so we can tell ourselves that it’s preventable in the future. But sometimes, and I want you to listen to this very closely, Beck, because this is important, sometimes, _shit just happens._ ”

Beck gives a startled laugh, and Joe grins in response.

“It’s true. And it’s scary. But blaming yourself for what happened isn’t gonna help you, Beck. It’s not gonna change what you went through, it won’t make you a better person, and it’s not gonna help you recover.”

She sits with that for a while, trying to sort through her feelings and thoughts. It’s a lot to take in. Joe doesn’t say anything, just doodles in his notebook, smiley faces and cartoon animals that she can see are pretty terrible, even looking at it upside-down.

“I don’t know,” she says at last. “I don’t know how to stop—how not to. It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

He smiles at her, eyes crinkling with the expression. “That’s what I’m here for, Beck. We’re going to work through this together.”

 

He gives her homework, which is working on something called “self-dialogue.”

“You can control how you think about yourself,” he explains. “So when you blame yourself for stuff, or you screw up, or you feel anxious—there’s a voice in your head that’s telling you stuff. Things like, ‘I’m not good enough’, or ‘I don’t deserve this good thing’, or ‘I deserve bad stuff to happen to me”, or any other negative thing. I want you to pay attention to what that voice is saying—what you’re telling yourself. And I want you to come up with some things you can respond to that voice with. Meet that negativity with love and acceptance.”

“I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay. It takes time to even notice how you talk to yourself. When you start feeling like you’re having a problem, I want you to stop and notice what’s going on in your head. What are you telling yourself?”

She sighs. “That I should be punished, usually.”

“Alright, so when you think that thought, ‘I should be punished’, or ‘I’ll be punished’, I want you to stop and ask yourself, ‘Why?’. And try to decide if the answer makes sense.” He meets her eyes, expression sympathetic without being pitying. “This is going to take time, Beck. But questioning those negative assumptions is a start.”

“I can do that,” she says, and, to her surprise, finds that she believes it. This isn’t some huge and nebulous thing like “getting better” or “being happy”—it feels reasonable, doable. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it feels like the rung of a ladder, something solid in a sea of doubt.

“Good.” He retrieves his briefcase from its place by his feet, slipping his notebook and pen inside. “How do you feel about meeting again the day after tomorrow?”

“Good? I feel... good. About that.”

“Then I’ll see you then, and we can talk about how you did with this exercise.” His smile is warm, like Steve’s and Sam’s and Pepper’s, with no hint of fear. “It was nice meeting you, Beck.”

“You too,” she says, and is surprised to realize it’s true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Everybody I Love You", by CSNY.  
> Most of this is based on my own experiences with therapy (although obviously my life experiences are completely dissimilar to Beck's). Hopefully it's not too far off the mark!  
> As always, comments are very much appreciated!


	14. The Same Kind of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Beck has her therapy appointment, Steve hangs out with Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why, but I really struggled with this chapter. Please let me know what you think of it!  
> Content warnings: Mentions of depression, mention of self-harm within a song lyric.

 

_The same kind of music haunts her bedroom_  
_I'm almost me again, she's almost you_

_I wouldn't know where to start_  
_"Sweet Music" playing "In The Dark"_  
_Be still "My Foolish Heart, "_  
_Don't ruin this on me_

_\--"Almost (Sweet Music)", Hozier_

Steve vetted the therapist himself before he let him anywhere Beck; he can’t stand the thought of  anyone hurting her, and even though he knows she _needs_ therapy, allowing a stranger access to her when she’s so vulnerable makes him incredibly nervous.

Joe had passed the interview with flying colors, though. He seems kind and is clearly brilliant, and completely unfazed by Captain America and Avengers Tower. Steve has gotten pretty good at judging people based on how they react to meeting him, and Joe had treated him like just another person.

“Captain Rogers, nice to meet you. Ms. Potts tells me you are _not_ my client?”

“No, I’m not,” Steve had said. “Your client is my—my girlfriend—” it still felt like pushing his luck to say it, but Beck had made it clear what terms she wanted to use for their relationship—“but her situation is a little… different… so I wanted to talk to you first.”

Joe had given him a sharp look at that. “You realize that, if I take this person on, I will not be sharing any information about our sessions with you? I don’t violate my clients’ privacy.”

It was that, more than anything, that had convinced Steve to give him a chance.

Now that the session is underway, of course, he’s having a hard time remembering why he agreed to this. It’s only been five minutes—during which he’s paced around Natasha’s living room approximately two hundred seventeen times—and he already feels like he’s going mad.

“I just—what if he makes everything worse? What if it triggers some kind of—episode—”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, Rogers, would you quit being so dramatic? They’re fine. She’s fine. And JARVIS will alert us if anything goes wrong. Or she’ll text you or press her panic button if she feels uncomfortable. _And_ ,” she says pointedly, as Steve opens his mouth to argue, “we’ve already been over this eight times this morning.”

Steve closes his mouth, chagrined. “I just… I just worry.”

“I know you do, Steve,” she says, in a slightly softer voice. “Now come on, I’m getting dizzy watching you pace.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, following her to the door.

“To the gym. We’re going to spar.”

They spar, best two out of three matches, and Steve wins by a hair’s breadth in the last match, letting Natasha sweep his feet out from under him so he can catch himself on his hands and kick her in the throat. He pulls the kick at the last second, of course, just grazing her with his toe to let her know he’s won, and she laughs in startlement and flops onto the mat in defeat.

“Where the hell did you learn that?”

“YouTube,” he says, grinning as he throws himself down beside her. “I’ve been watching capoeira videos.”

“Huh.” She stretches out on her back, extending her arms above her head. “Maybe I’ve still got a couple tricks to learn, after all.”

“Only a couple?”

She swats his shoulder. “Manners, Rogers.”

“Never had any.”

“And people think you’re such a nice, polite boy.”

“That is _not_ my fault.” He rolls onto his stomach so he can reach his water bottle, discarded at the side of the mat. “Anyway, you like me this way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must be thinking of some other Avenger.”

“Denial doesn’t suit you, Romanoff.”

Natasha swipes the bottle from him just as he’s raising it to his lips. “Quit being an asshole, Rogers.”

He chuckles and lies back down, content to wait until she finishes drinking and thrusts the bottle back into his hands.

 

“Have you talked to Maria yet?” she asks as they head toward the shower room.

Steve sighs. “You know I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

He hunches his shoulders a little, uncomfortable. “I just… I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t want to lose my temper again, and—right now, every time I think about it, I just wanna strangle something.”

“Maybe you should ask Bruce about relaxation techniques.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he complains.

“Oh, I am, I just don’t want to see you punch Maria through a wall.”

“I’m not gonna punch her through a _wall_.”

She turns to face him, leaning against the door of a shower cubicle. “You’re going to have to deal with this sooner or later, Steve.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing his face. “I just… look, am I crazy? I feel like I’m the only one who’s upset about this.”

Natasha gives him a look that’s a little too pitying for his comfort. “We’re all concerned. Just… maybe not as surprised.”

“You expected something like this?” He doesn’t attempt to keep the surprise and hurt from his voice. Had everyone known what Maria was doing, and kept it from him?

“Steve,” she says, with a touch of exasperation, “you have to remember my background. My default assumption is that most people can’t be trusted. I don’t… I didn’t know about this, specifically, but—it’s more of a surprise to me when people _don’t_ stab me in the back. And I don’t think that’s what she did, not really. Not from her point of view, at least.”

He sits down on one of the benches lining the wall opposite the showers, feeling suddenly weary. “I just… I thought she understood. I thought she agreed with me.”

“It’s not that simple.” She pushes off from the shower stall, taking a seat next to him instead. “Look. Do you remember, when we were taking down the helicarriers, Sam asked you who were the bad guys, and you said, anyone who was shooting at us?”

“That day was kind of a blur for me, Natasha.”

“Okay, well, that’s what you said. And I think… that’s kind of your attitude in general, you know?”

“What, that people who are shooting at me probably aren’t on my side?”

She shoves his shoulder. “No, you moron. I mean that you think of things in terms of sides. That people are either with you or against you. But that’s… I mean, it’s not necessarily that simple.”

“I know the world isn’t black-and-white, Natasha, I’m not naïve.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean…” She waves her hands in the air, either in frustration or illustration, he’s not sure. “Okay, Maria backed you when you said SHIELD had to go, so you took that to mean she agreed with you about everything else. But she knew about Insight, and didn’t see the problem with it any more than Nick did. And she’s very, very loyal to Nick. The fact that she agreed with you about not rebuilding SHIELD is huge. But that doesn’t mean that she agrees with you about everything, or that she’s no longer loyal to Nick, or that you even have the _right_ to her loyalty. She’s with you on some stuff, and possibly not on others, and you won’t know until you _talk_ to her. But it’s not—this isn’t all or nothing. Most things—most people— aren’t.”

“ _I_ am,” he mutters, because it’s true, though he’s not sure, has never been sure, whether that’s a virtue or a flaw. He supposes it depends on the situation.

Natasha sighs. “I know you are, Steve.”

“I mean, I’m not saying that’s a _good_ thing, I just…”

“I know,” she repeats. “Just bear in mind that yours is not the only way to view the world. It’s not even always the right way.”

“Thanks, Nat,” he says drily.

“Any time.” She gets up, flicking his shoulder with the end of her towel. “Go and shower already, Rogers. You’re gonna be late getting back, at this rate.”

“And whose fault is that?” he demands, but enters the stall next to hers anyway.

 

When they return to the apartment, they’re greeted by the sound of heavy guitars and a male voice half-shouting:

_We'll carry on, we'll carry on_

_And though you're dead and gone, believe me_

_Your memory will carry on!_

Steve groans. “Oh, lord, she’s found my iPod.”

“Is that MCR?” Natasha asks, fascinated.

“I didn’t even know I still _had_ that thing. And yes, it is.” He casts a sideways look at her. “I had my emo phase.”

“I don’t remember them being around in the 90s,” she says, folding her arms.

_The world_

_Will never take my heart_

_You can try_

_You'll never break me!_

“So I’m a late bloomer,” says Steve. “Come on, you can’t pretend you never listened to angsty music when you went on your revenge world tour.”

Natasha’s lips twitch. “Heavy metal,” she says after a moment. “The screaming was… cathartic.”

He folds his arms, raising an eyebrow, and she sighs in defeat.

“OK, and MCR and Fallout Boy and Evanescence and pretty much every other angsty angry thing I could get my hands on.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t break with the Russians earlier,” he says thoughtfully. “I feel like mid-2000s me and you had a lot in common.”

Natasha smiles. “We would have burnt the world down, Rogers.”

“Worth it, though.”

“Black Parade” comes to an end, and “Ohio is for Lovers” starts up. He winces.

“I’d better go make sure she’s okay. I mean, it’s probably just, you know…”

“Catharsis?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I hope so, but…”

“Okay. Mind if I grab some of your Fanta? I’m out.”

“I have Fanta?” he asks, derailed, and then shakes his head. “Sure. Help yourself to whatever. And—Natasha…”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She meets his eyes. “You’re welcome, Steve.” Her smile turns mischievous. “I won’t say any time, because I don’t want you making this into a habit.”

He grins. “Understood.” With a final wave, he heads down the hallway in search of Beck.

The door to her bedroom is open. Steve pokes his head in to see her lying on her back on the bed; his iPod is sitting on the nightstand, hooked up to a pair of speakers that are too new and expensive-looking to be anything other than a gift from Tony. He spends a couple seconds wondering when that happened, then dismisses it as unimportant.

“Beck? Can I come in?”

When she turns her head, he sees that her eyes are red, but she’s not crying at the moment. She stretches a hand to him, and he takes it, letting her pull him onto the bed.

The moment he lies down next to her, she snuggles up to him, pressing her forehead against his sternum. Pulling her even closer, he kisses her hair and asks, “Was it awful?”

“No,” she mumbles. “It was really good, actually, it’s just… a lot.”

He thinks back to the period just after his discharge from the Army, when Emmy had finally convinced him to go to therapy. The first time he’d actually talked about his feelings, four sessions in, had been devastating and freeing in equal measure. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

_So cut my wrists and black my eyes_ , the band screams.

_So I can fall asleep tonight, or die!_

Steve strokes her back, reveling in the way she relaxes into his touch. “So, you like this music?”

“Mm.” She turns her face a little, so her cheek is resting against his chest. “Depends on the song, but… yeah. I like that they’re—angry. They’re _allowed_ to be angry.”

“Yeah,” says Steve softly. “That’s what I liked about it, too.”

“You don’t anymore?”

He runs his fingers through her hair, watching the dark strands sliding across his skin. “It’s not that I don’t like it anymore, but… it got me through a bad time in my life. So I guess it’s nostalgic for me, but also kind of hard to listen to. And, I don’t know, I guess I prefer stuff that’s a little more upbeat, now. Music that isn’t quite so… painful.”

“I like it,” she repeats, winding her metal arm more firmly about his waist. Then, with no obvious segue, “Joe’s coming back on Thursday.”

“Is that… good?”

“I think so. I like him. He gave me a mission.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“I have to pay attention to when I have negative thoughts about myself, and ask why. And I have to think about ways to respond to the bad thoughts.”

Steve kisses her hair again, overwhelmed with helpless affection. “That sounds good.”

“Yeah.” She pushes him over a little, so she can settle her head more comfortably in the curve of his arm. “Kiss me?”

He’s more than happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Almost (Sweet Music)" by Hozier.  
> Other music lyrics quoted in this chapter are from "Welcome to the Black Parade" by My Chemical Romance and "Ohio is for Lovers" by Hawthorne Heights.   
> Have suggestions for early-2000s angst music for Beck to listen to? Let me know!  
> Find me on tumblr at captaintoomanybattles.tumblr.com.


End file.
